


Monster Ranch 2

by Chuck_Johannsen



Series: Monster Ranch [2]
Category: Daily Life With Monster Girls, モンスター娘のいる日常 | Monster Musume no Iru Nichijou
Genre: F/M, Humor, Monster Girls, Multi, Pragmatic protagonist, daily life, just leave me alone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 102,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24609001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chuck_Johannsen/pseuds/Chuck_Johannsen
Summary: Continuation of the previous work by the same title; Leif Larsen is now the rancher with a small town being built on his land. New species are moving in, crops need harvesting, winter is coming, and the Cultural Exchange Between Species Act is to be announced soon ... not that Leif has the time to think about it. Life continues as normal as possible, which is to say, in the same gentle methods demonstrated in the last installment. The story continues!
Relationships: None
Series: Monster Ranch [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1779052
Comments: 39
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

Leif’s tractor chuntered underneath his seat, the old steel springs jiggling at every rut. He sat in full expectation of every rock and turn, swaying as the flat seat bobbed. It was an older machine, a classic Farmall M built before his father had been born. Deep red paint, touched up a hundred times in three generations kept the metal from rust; home-made parts whirled through the 4-cylinder I-head, just as powerful as the day it had rolled off the assembly line.

Seeing his turn, Leif twisted, slowing the ancient machine to a crawl. It moved through the opening, two massive wooden posts embedded in the tall grass on either side. Barbed wire fencing stretched back, protecting cattle within, whenever they were moved to that section. They loved this region, cropping its verdant stretches for months on end. But this year herds had been kept _out_ , rendering the entire field lush, long, and green. Perfect for bailing hay.

Behind the old M, a long trailer bed rocked and swayed. As wide as the tractor itself, but set low to the ground, the trailer carried a half-dozen hay bales. Not the small rectangles used in show farms and horse pens, no. These were the six-foot, half-ton version; near two tons if he thought about it. Just one carried enough hay to supply a herd for a week, but moving it required the aid of machinery. Over the next few minutes, idle speculation ran through his mind, comparing the six-foot roll to the smaller rectangular version.

“What you think, Eugene?” Leif knew the dog couldn’t hear over the diesel engine’s sputtering. But the trotting dog glanced his way all the same, shrugging in an intelligent fashion.

“Right,” he completed the turn, settling the machine on a path towards the further pastures. “Better move in bulk. Tear it apart when you need it.”

The Border collie jogged ahead, nose held high, Leif knew. Strange scents ran rampant these days. Not only did fall weather spawn hunting season, but the centaur establishment approached completion. Centaurs themselves were strange beings, half-horse, half-human, presumably smelling different from anything else. What’s more, they had visitors less human than themselves, not that Leif had paid attention.

There was too much work to do.

A half-smile grew on Leif’s face. This was what he loved about farming; he had a full load of hay grown to its greatest potential, more than sufficient resources stashed for the oncoming winter, and a weatherproof home. It was the simple things in life, but critical – too critical to ignore. Better to enjoy what he had, while he had it. His head tilted back, smiling at the bright sun, a regular heartbeat of the sky.

The pale sun shone back, highlighting the emptiness of the unending plains. From horizon to horizon nothing blocked his view. The few trees brave enough to set down roots lacked the lofty advantages enjoyed in other regions, but compensated by thick foliage in the lower branches, strong branches, and a determination that could outlast mountains. No prairie fire had rampaged in the past century, permitting the windbreak’s presence.

“Hey boy,” Leif studied the road ahead. He could see a rider – or centaur – was coming, but the tall grass prevented ready identification. “Visitor.”

Despite the tractor’s overwhelming rumble, the dog pricked its ear forwards, darting even further ahead only to pause. Herding ran deep in the canine’s blood; if it moved, it needed to move in the right direction.

Leif readjusted his grip. Old the tractor may have been, but its construction harkened to an era when _well-built_ had been a point of pride; near solid galvanized steel from hitch to hood, over three tons fully ballasted. The enamel-coated circle rotated smoothly at his touch, heeling back in just the right place.

The oncoming rider’s legs moved in tandem, following the twin ruts made by generations of wheels. Oddly, she tossed her head, sending long black hair flying.

Leif eased off the accelerator, not quite touching the brake but not adding to the vehicle’s acceleration. At a distance, many folk had dark hair, but only one in the area had a black equine body paired with plaid and denim. He waited a few moments longer, letting the wheels slow, four-foot tires of black rubber cushioning the vehicle’s weight. Another handful of seconds later and the forward progress halted. He considered his next action, then gave a shrug. In one easy motion he swung off the seat, vaulting to the ground. After landing he tugged off the ear protectors strapped to his head, re-snapping the device around one thigh – an old farmer’s dodge.

Ahead the figure sped up, galloping towards him. It took effort, but he managed to keep his eyes on her face, despite the interesting things going on just below neck level. Once far enough away from the tractor’s persistent rumble, he stopped. Waiting.

Steady hoof beats came closer, rumbling until the centauride was nearly on top of him. She came to an abrupt halt, breathing hard.

He managed to avoid the distraction _that_ presented.

“Milord,” Roanette caught her breath.

He nodded, resigned; the title hurt, but nothing could prevent the woman from using it. He’d tried.

She plowed on, unbothered by his silence. “The report lies upon your desk, but if I may say short version?” Questioning eyes barely waited for his nod before continuing, “The next group is coming today; housing is almost done, and the Center is complete. You have a few visitors waiting at the guest house, they know you’re a busy man so they’re willing to wait a few days to see you.”

Leif kept another flinch from showing. _Guest house._ A difficult pair of words; by themselves innocent, but indicative of so very much more.

“Father has taken up residence in the Main Home, and wants you to know you are welcome at any time. Oh, and the centaurs are receiving a strong talking to from him, your fields will be safe.”

“Hm.” Leif just nodded, letting information flow over like a cool breeze.

Roanette reached back, pulling a compact container from a saddlebag positioned near the human torso. “Oh, and your lunch; Sophette was cooking and made extra. I brought a thermos as well, mint tea. I know you prefer it.”

Leif accepted the package, and offered a smile. “Kind of you two. Thanks.”

While her blushing was amusing, he chose to ignore how the box’s contents seemed to fit its contours with calculated precision. Centaurides appeared to have poor estimation skills, given how many times they’d created too much for themselves, and just happened to have enough remaining for a farmer-sized lunchbox. The flask of tea too, seemed fresh. But how could he betray their hard work with an off-hand observation? No, better pretend that he knew nothing. But having a personalized lunch delivered at noon for the past two weeks felt … decadent.

“Are your efforts progressing?”

Leif tucked the box under one arm, letting the thermos dangle from one finger. “Eh. Could be worse.”

“Good,” her dark hair, tied back in a ponytail, waved in the wind. “If you desire, I could still bring in help. ‘twould be only fair, as we have kept you from your harvest.”

He shook his head. “Thanks, but no. Doing alright; just gotta get it done.”

Hooves thudded on the firm-packed soil; Roanette seemed a little disappointed, but it had been the same answer he’d always given. He wondered if she realized that her forelegs were pawing up small clumps. It seemed rude to mention, she was harming no one. Truth be told, it was … rather endearing. The large, powerful horse-woman; shy in the presence of someone like him? She hadn’t acted like that when it had just been the two of them up at The Place, an older farmhouse his grandparents had built nearly a century before. What had changed?

Leif shelved the thought; none of his business. “I’ll be moving the hay to the back forty, combine the next couple fields, and get it to the granaries.” He cast a glance up at the skies. They remained an innocent blue-white, the heat of noon burning through the air. “Weather should hold another few days, so I can spend an hour or so home. Maybe six o’clock?”

The centauride made a half-bow motion. “At once, milord. Will you need a bath drawn? I hate to be rude, but you have a … strong … scent … sometimes ….”

He just looked at her, nares flaring with almost invisible quiver. “Good thought.” He shook his head; liminal senses had to be stronger than humans; he should’ve thought of that. “What kind of guests again?”

The female centaur gave herself a brief shake. “They are _Dryalis,_ a rather large collection of families. I believe they may be divided into two families, if you will: the _dryads_ and the _elven_. Both are very fond of nature, but the _dryads_ tend to take their primal association to greater extremes, to be honest.”

Leif tilted his head to one side, raising an eyebrow. “Extremes?”

Roanette huffed, but he could see her hands wringing themselves. “How do I put this? The _dryads_ tend to live outdoors most of the time, and wear plant derivatives in lieu of clothing. Bark, leaves and such. They are quite creative with how they do it, but the end result is a tad, ah, disconcerting. As a group, they are fairly small, but are connected to the land in a way almost nothing else is; no one is quite certain how they do it, but their gift for influencing growth is nothing short of astonishing.”

He had to consider the thought for a moment. “Small, wear leaves, and warp plants?”

“Yes,” Roanette’s brow furrowed. “In a very small nutshell.”

Leif nodded. “And the others?”

Her expression grew troubled, then pensive. “They actually possess the closest to human form among the liminals, hence the … ah … timing issue. As we discussed before, _elven_ folk were to contact you first; then my father successfully argued for us to be second.”

Questions bubbled in Leif’s mind, almost tumbling over themselves – why centaurs second? It seemed the old centaur had been quite insistent on the matter. He took a long look at the centauride’s face, and opted to delay gratification. “Six. See you then?”

Her expression brightened. “As you wish, milord.”

Leif walked back to the tractor, grass flicking his denim-covered legs. The steady swishing sensation calmed the mind; no matter what situation arose, he could depend on the land. It never changed; demanded nothing more than what he could give. It was dependable that way; even the shifts inherent to its nature were comprehensible if enough common sense were applied.

The tractor’s steady rumble swelled to its dull roar, obliterating the hoof beats as Roanette returned up the same path. Leif found himself taking a long drink from the thermos, relishing the sensation and taste of warm tea on a cool day.

His eyes bent skywards once again. “ _Not long now. Good thing I’ve got a decent start on harvest._ ”

[Larsen Residence, late afternoon]

A little longer wouldn’t hurt.

Leif adjusted the hot water’s temperature upwards, increasing the amount of steam billowing in the shower. It felt good on his sore body; even using machines to do most of the work failed to eliminate muscle fatigue. Opening the harvested field to future grazing took time as well, and the barbed wire had caught on a sleeve before realization kicked in. _That_ stung like a dozen angry yellow-jackets with a grudge.

Bandages wouldn’t last under water, so he hadn’t bothered re-applying the wrapping yet. There was nothing more irritating than moist adhesives rubbing the skin raw.

Sighing, Leif allowed himself another whole luxurious minute. There was no danger the hot water would run out; large families tended to plan for that. But there was work to do, people to meet, and supper to make. Seconds ticked by, marked by the slow drip on the faucet. He made a note of that; repairs were a never-ending battle in home maintenance combat.

The cool metal valve squeaked, shutting down the stream of misting moisture. Leif toweled off, making a note to do laundry the next day. Sunshine was best for drying in his opinion.

Methodically he drew on his jeans and socks, then froze. Where was his shirt?

“Forget my own head next.” he muttered. After a moment’s thought, Leif pulled out his shaver, commencing to finish cleaning up. It was a straight-edge, just like his father’s.

With the running water shut off, Leif could once again hear the distant noise of heavy machinery. If forced he’d admit the construction company that had taken on the bid worked fast. Already the distinct signs of a small village could be seen. It was a discomfiting thought, one Leif tried to drive out through focus.

The lather smelled clean; Leif appreciated that. So much better than the strange odors a city had; mixes of diesel exhaust and fast-food, all mingled in a jumbled olfactory cacophony. His razor’s quiet rasp added to the serenity; a comforting little noise so unlike the brutish sounds with which his siblings were forced to coexist. Constant traffic annoyed him almost as much as the incessant machinery. With luck, it would be done within weeks.

Thoughts jumped through his head on antelope-like leaps. There were many things to do, why would elves want him involved? Granted, being kept abreast of developments felt respectful, a factor vital to any relationship. Lack of honorable conduct wore away at individuals, reducing cooperativeness more surely than any affliction.

Finished, Leif wipe and dried his razor, then gathered laundry into the five gallon bucket serving as a hamper. Clean and feeling clean, he popped open the bathroom door, steam billowing out into the cooler hall air.

“Oh my ….”

Leif looked up. Roanette stood at the far end of the hall, eyes wide and staring. To one side, lying below the book case sitting by the bathroom door, rested his shirt. It must have fallen when he’d set the clothes down earlier.

He grabbed the shirt, letting it dangle from one hand. The centauride’s behavior was a little odd. “Ro. You’re early?”

Grinding sounds emerged from the living room, heralding the single deep chime marking half after. The noise seemed to spook the centauride, judging from the minor jump performed by her front legs.

“The meeting is at sex! I mean, with the elves. At six with the elves!” the dark-haired centauride backed up several steps, flushing a deep pink. Her hindquarters bumped against a souvenir end table, knocking over ceramic curios and a hand-carved chess set Leif had made one long winter. “Oh no … I’m sorry! So sorry! I didn’t mean to –“

A smirk lifted one corner of Leif’s mouth. He shook his head; “Don’t worry. Happens. You alright?”

Roanette’s head jerked up, then twisted to one side, the fiery blush still in full force. “Wha –? Oh. Yes milord. It’s just ah … would you mind if … your shirt?”

Leif had to think for a moment, then remembered the fabric in one hand. “Oh. Sure.” He shimmied it on, then grabbed the flannel overshirt. “It’s just, you’ve seen me before. At The Place.”

Her flushed face, which had just begun to fade turned red again. “Yes. Ah. Well. This is different. Could we talk about it later? Your guests will be here soon. Please?”

“Aright.” Leif cast around for a change in subject, before finally landing on an old standby. He gestured at the halter-top showcasing her narrow waist and generous proportions, tastefully paired with an overshirt similar to his own. “You look nice. Changed?”

Roanette’s face shifted to near a tomato hue. “Yesthankyougottago!”

A clatter of rubber-shod hooves accompanied the centauride’s departure. Leif stood still, eyebrows furrowed. For half-a-dozen heartbeats, he blinked; twice his head came up as if revelation from the heavens were about to strike, before dropping once more in confusion. Finally he just shrugged. “Gonna be an interesting day.”


	2. Meetings

Evening came early in the mid-September months. Leif cast a long look at the falling sun; the Almanac predicted a meeting of the fiery orb and the horizon around half after seven, but the mountains pulled back that time by nearly twenty minutes. Currently, the sky held a light wind blowing against his hair, chilling its damp lengths. Most of the trees held at least a dull color change, the dark shades of green relinquishing their realm to the lighter shades of Fall.

Outside his home, Leif turned south to face the orchard. Its own bountiful harvest appeared scrupulously cleaned, almost none of the ripe fruit remained dangling on its branches. A handful of trees near the back carried late-ripening fruit, but even now he could see the youngest of the Yiddermans performing a meticulous examination. Such care seemed to require frequent sampling for sugar content, and thoughtful contemplation as its resulting data processed.

He had to shake his head. The centaur fondness for apples proved beyond his imagination; it bordered on obsession.

Back on the porch, Eugene stood up, staring at a point a few steps back. Leif nodded to himself; Border collies – shoot, any dog – held almost preternatural senses, detecting friend or foe at distances he could only dream about.

A cleared throat announced someone's presence, more than the dog's attention. It sounded familiar. Leif paused, thinking, then turned. "Wesson."

"Mister Larsen, good to see you again!"

Leif quirked an eyebrow. The other man wore formal clothing, slacks and a button-front shirt, complete with a tie and sports coat. While inexperienced, he was suspicious about the agent's innocent appearance; Roanette's written report had spoken at length over the intensive training required in the Exchange's operatives division. "What can I do for you?"

Wesson's shoulders drooped, his face dropping in an almost comical expression if it hadn't been on a grown man. "Come now Mister Larsen, we're friends! Buddies! We've been through a lot together! The least you could do is call me Roman."

He pondered that for a moment. "Why?"

"Um," the agent cocked his head to one side, looking uncommonly like a kicked puppy. "Because it's my name? Friends call each other by their first names out here, do they not?"

That made more sense. The last actual Roman would have died millennia before, but that didn't change things much. Leif took in the city man's dapper appearance once more and shook his head. "What do you want, Agent Wesson."

Wesson sighed. "All right, I'm here basically to prep you for your next guests. Can we go inside?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No." Leif checked the sun's position once more. This was wasting time and there was grain to harvest. Allowing the man who'd admitted to planting surveillance devices in his home _back_ into said home was the lastthing a logical man would allow. He raised one hand towards the orchard, where the retreating form of the blonde centauride could be seen. "Shade over there, but not inside."

"Fine," Wesson led the way, needing only an extended lower lip to complete the image of a petulant five-year-old. It was in the lowered head, shoulders and arms wrapped tight in front of the expensive Italian cut fabric, shined leather shoes seeking to cause distress on little clumps of vegetation at every other step. Too, there was a distinct grumbling tone under the man's voice, the sound of an unhappy man in a situation he did not like.

They reached the edges of the nearer orchard, which happily lacked centauride populations, as he saw the blonde centauride headed across the further pasture, arms loaded with sacks. These days, Leif wasn't sure if the female centaurs practically _lived_ in the orchard. His freezer groaned under the massive quantities of apple-based pastries stuffed in its confines. Yet they did not stop; as soon as Sophette, the smaller half-sister of Roanette, had discovered the cookbooks stashed in the book room, almost every evening he was home held the odors of baked goods emanating from the kitchen.

It wasn't bad, he admitted. But guests after years of solitude wore on him; leaving for a week or so at a time to work the fields was only natural. Besides, it wasn't as if he were abandoning the centaurides, was it?

_Was it?_

"Mister Larsen, have I offended you somehow?"

Leif switched gears, coming back to the present. "Come again?"

Wesson leaned his back against a tree, its waving branches bereft of all fruit. "You don't want me in your house, you've never called me with questions, and I _know_ you've been aware of another species coming. But you haven't called or written. Why?"

A blank look was all Leif could give for a moment. He tried to expand on it with a half-shrug. "No need."

A muscle twitched under Wesson's left eye. "While I understand a need for independence, if there are any issues, I need to be made aware of them as soon as possible."

Again, Leif contemplated the situation. There were a number of fields that still needed combining, but the few spots left for haying were largely done by hired help. Which reminded him, he needed to call the Kobernicks and finalize details on that. But … problems? They left him alone, he left them alone; what better arrangement could there be? "Nope. No problems."

Wesson frowned. "Are you sure? No one has pushed you to ride them, just to save time or some such thing?"

"Ah?" Leif gestured at the small barnyard not too far away. "I have a half-dozen horses right there. Trucks and tractors, plus my four-wheeler. Don't need a ride." He considered the dapper, smaller man for a heartbeat. "'Suppose the only complaint is they're taking up all my freezer space."

The other man's face went blank. "Freezer … space …?"

"Aye." Leif chuckled. "Ro and Sophie found the extra freezers in the Quonset. Filled 'em full of all kinds of apple goodies. Must have over a thousand pounds packed away, think I'll need to get another one for the meat come butchering time."

"Really." The government man's voice was flat. " _That's_ the biggest problem?"

Leif frowned. "Not a problem exactly. Just unplanned. Bit of a bad time to run out of space. Maybe a day to get to the butcher, takes him a week to get the job done. Another day to go out and back, pack it all in the freezers." His frown deepened. "Might need two, looks like a hard winter coming."

"If that's it, then I'm not too worried about your new tenants," Wesson shrugged. "I'll make arrangements for two freezers to be sent up here, and a transport for the, ah, cow, right?"

"Ach, no. I'll take care of it." Leif took a step back. "Thank yeh all the same."

"Mister Larsen, Leif _._ " Wesson's brown eyes rolled skywards in exasperation, not unlike a frustrated colt. "It is _my_ _job_ to ensure relations go smoothly between man and liminal. Part of that task involves a rather substantial budget devoted to breakage or resources used in service; sort of like how you are paid to leave entire swaths of grassland untilled, you see?"

Surprised, Leif pursed his lips. "Been reading?"

"I'm no idiot," Wesson cast a significant look at the ranch house, but said nothing. "Your decisions are your own of course, but I must warn you that interacting with liminal women is not exactly like working with humans. Actions speak much, _much_ louder than words."

"Yah," the rancher found an apple, smaller than normal, hiding in a fork of the tree branches. It tasted delicious. "As it should."

The city man took a few seconds to search for another apple, giving up quickly. "I can see where you're coming from, but human society is essentially based on lies. 'How are you doing,' 'I'm sorry to hear that,' things like that. We aren't actually interested in how people are doing, or feeling sorry for something not affecting us. There's some empathy involved, yes, but nothing we can actually place as a sensation _for_ someone else. Centaur society – shoot, many liminal cultures period – forgo all of that."

Leif held out his ripe, red fruit, pale flesh standing out against the russet skin. "Want a bite? No?" He brought it back. "Not sure what you're sayin' there. Could you make it simple?"

Wesson sighed. "Centaurs place a very high value on property and possessions. You are almost a king in their eyes, and you've been handing out the fruits of your labors," he eyed the half-eaten apple, "with very little restraint. To be very plain, two of the three Yidderman daughters are crushing on you. _Hard._ Compared to the centaur men, you are a prince; mannerly, generous, kind, empathic, and very very rich. With a single decision, you have the power to change the living conditions of an entire tribe, which means they want you to be happy. In action, they are trying to convince you to take care of them, and in centaur culture, that often includes marriage."

Leif inhaled, experiencing perhaps a full second of understanding why drowning was such a bad idea – and choked. Bits of chewed apple scattered to the ground. It took almost a full minute before he was able to speak once more. _"Marriage?"_

"Not so loud!" the city man's head jerked around. "Their hearing is better than some _dogs_!"

Leif spluttered again, fighting against the reactions of a pair of traitorous lungs. "Is that what you've been dancing around all this time? These girls are thinkin' to settle down or something?"

"Oy vey," Wesson grumbled. His back straightened, one arm reaching out to grip the rancher's shoulder. "Look Leif, if you got any more settled, your legs would be rooted. The only thing you'd need is a little pruning every now and again."

Leif shook his head. "I know the filly's want to canoodle, but it's a crush. They're young; it'll pass. Life goes on."

A faint tremor of exasperation rumpled the government agent's visage. "Well, at least you're not completely oblivious. That almost seems to be a requirement in this line of work. Just … keep it in mind, all right? Especially with the elves. They've been looking forward to this for years now – _don't_ mess it up for them."

Air hissed through the leaves as Leif flicked the mostly-eaten apple into the depths of the orchard. "I appreciate the heads up, Agent. But I ain't stupid either. They've had their hats tilted for me for a while now, but that's all that's going to happen."

The rumble of distant engines carried through the air, reaching Leif's ears. He frowned. It didn't sound like any neighbors; the next military convoy wasn't due for another month or so. _Everyone_ knew there were active missile silos dispersed throughout the region – they just chose to ignore the frequent visits from military vehicles occupied by inexperienced grunts. Well-intentioned grunts, who treated you with the same respect seen between nervous folk sitting on a bomb, but unskilled, accident-prone grunts all the same. Neighbors kept an eye out for each other, a fact thumb-fingered fools often forgot.

He closed his eyes, concentrating. The baritone rumble mixed with the higher timbre of a less powerful motor, multiple engines combining in a distant symphony. "Three or four cars, one truck. That them?"

Wesson's head was tilted in similar fashion. "That's Agent Seneca. They elected to avoid the helicopters then? Trying to be quiet, I suppose. Oh, pretend that we did not meet. Seneca's new, and wants to prove herself without help."

Leif started for the house once more.

"Leif – Mister Larsen," the agent's voice caught him just a few steps out from the orchard's boughs.

He turned back, eyebrow raised.

"Just … be careful. I'll back you up, but _please_ be careful."

The tall man, bronzed by the fury of northern summers, snorted. "So long as they leave me alone, we'll be fine."

* * *

Less than twenty minutes later, Leif stood in his front living room once more, watching out the window as sleek, black vehicles arranged themselves on the large circle drive. Already he'd moved the '74 Chevy a bit further back, just behind the workshop; he hoped the newcomers would know better than to just walk into a place filled with anvils and welding equipment. Likewise he'd shifted the larger tractor out of the way – the combines were safely ensconced in the Quonset, as befitting critical hardware of their status.

In his mind, he couldn't help drawing a contrast between the new, almost glossy finish on the cars purring in his drive, and the more worn appearance of the hardware he owned. In proper perspective, he didn't really want new things, but the stark difference was more than enough to get neighbors tongues wagging. A bright, shiny new tractor gave conversation fodder for a month – what was a cavalcade of cutting edge technology going to do?

"Quiet?"

Half of the entire point for the centaurs taking up the Old Stead acreage was to maintain secrecy. A full quarter of the paperwork had seemed to consist of NDA's … what his brother had called _non-disclosure_ forms. Money had been funneled through more intermediaries than his cornfields had stalks – then the idiots went and drove brand spanking new vehicles into his front drive, in full view of the gravel road.

" _Right_."

Along the back wall, standing on its massive frame, the grandfather clock ticked away the seconds. As each pass of the metal disc shaved another fraction from the passing minutes, he could see more people emerging from the vehicles. That was fairly easy, as the various machines were set in a protective circle, following the ring of his driveway. It felt almost like the old Conestoga wagons, huddled for defense.

The clock's gears rattled for the moment before one chain dropped, powering the internal bell. While small, its resonance filled the room, sounding the half hour.

This time, Leif moved. He reached the front door well ahead of the newcomers, snagging the hat off its stand and jamming it on his head. The door slammed shut behind him, the screen banging into place. He took his time, strolling down the short steps onto the driveway. The small group waited a dozen feet from their vehicle. He recognized Wesson, talking into his bulky satellite phone, and gave a friendly nod. Responding, the man came closer, closing the device.

"Wesson." Leif came to a halt, greeting the man once more. He took a moment to enjoy the beautiful weather; the first frost would be soon; then the last of harvest. "Picked a nice day to visit.

The slight man in a sharp business suit gave a gentle bow as if seeing him for the first time. A young woman in similar clothing stood behind him, curiosity embodied in every line. "Indeed Mister Larsen. I am pleased to be here again. May I introduce Agent Seneca, who will be the coordinator for your new liminal guests? Agent Seneca, Mister Larsen."

The woman, roughly Leif's height, stepped forwards. "Sir. Thank you for opening your home to the Program. If there is anything I can do to assist or clarify, please do not hesitate to ask."

Leif thought about that. _Were_ there any questions? Roanette's report left him with more information than he'd started with at the beginning of the whole situation. Being surprised with a centaur after a lifetime of firm certainty in their mythical status had been a shock of a lifetime or two. There was minimal time – but he _had_ set aside this evening for the newcomers. More information would be far better than less.

"You're responsible for the elves and dryads, yes?"

Thin, penciled eyebrows rose. "I wasn't aware that information had been disseminated yet. You were planning to meet with me, yes?"

"Hm." Leif chose not to answer, stretching his neck, vertebrae creaking a quiet relief. Hadn't this day been scheduled? Perhaps the Exchange Program was not as organized as one would desire. "Where and when?"

"Their representatives are here today, and are eager to meet with you. Are you ready?"

Leif grunted. "Aye."

"Excellent, I'll just need to confirm with my superiors." Seneca pulled out a small rectangular piece of electronics. Nimble fingers danced on its surface, sun glare making any image featureless from Leif's angle. Her face grew puzzled. "I don't … there's no signal?"

Wesson flashed a charming grin. "Sorry, I forgot to mention that. There is no signal out here. May I offer my satellite phone?"

Shock still evident on her face, the female agent shook her head. "The ambassadors have standard service too, did you not arrange for a tower?"

"Less than a month isn't enough time," the agent's white teeth did not stop gleaming. "Plans are in the works; one at the center of the settlement, and one next to the road. There is a landline connection in the house –" he caught the glare Leif couldn't help sending his way. A coughing fit didn't quite retract the phrase. "If … ah … Mister Larsen is okay with it?"

"No." Leif said before the female agent had a chance to respond. "Next?"

Agent Seneca's eyes fluttered to Leif, then back at Wesson, before the cell phone lowered. "Um, I see. May I borrow your satellite phone, Agent Wesson?"

His charming grin grew even wider. "Of course!"

Leif inhaled, a long deep selection of diesel fumes, wide country air and the strange perfume that'd started floating around in the past few minutes. It was a farmer's life, one that granted satisfaction unlike any other occupation. Independence. Durability. Resilience.

Wait. Perfume?

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Larsen." A cultured voice spoke behind him.

Leif closed his eyes. Liminals seemed to have a deep desire to mock his human senses at every opportunity. Intentional or no, it was beginning to annoy.

Heaving an internal sigh, he turned around. A few steps away stood a different woman from before; this one stood a few inches shorter than himself, yet possessing a svelte frame that bespoke a lifetime of careful sculpting. Like the centaurs, her ears were different from human norms, raised into points that swept back in a sweeping arc. Her eyebrows were equally alien, a natural series of one sharp angle and two straight lines each. Unlike the typical fantasy displays his brother had sometimes referenced, the woman was neither diminutive nor underdeveloped. If it weren't for the decidedly larger eyes and ears, she could have been mistaken for a surgically enhanced model.

"Just Mister, at least for now," he held out a hand. "You're new."

A strange look crossed her face, amusement perhaps? Her hand, smooth skin hiding whipcord muscles grasped his own. "It could be said, yes. I am Aredhel Lithlinede, representative of the Sindrel. May I introduce my compatriot Haile Norodhen, of the Kail?"

Leif glanced around; nothing could be seen. No other elf, or dryad for that matter, other than the blonde woman standing before him. Was this supposed to be some kind of joke? An imaginary friend?

Given the current rate of impossible individuals becoming possible, that could be the wrong thing to ask. Who knew if a massive, fifty-foot golem had been pretending to be his ash heap for the last few years?

"Hi."

He looked down. A small, greenish-brown person stood there, her greatest height maybe reaching his hip, if she rose to her tiptoes. Unlike Aredhel, her hair was a dark brown, mixed with what looked to be actual moss, intertwined with vines that came down on a small torso, wrapping leaves in what he sincerely hoped was not poison ivy.

That stuff itched like the dickens.

"Hello?" The sound of moving feet, mixed with the low noise of people talking quietly, almost distracted him, but he remained polite. Even the metallic sounds of slamming car doors failed. "Pleased to meet you both. I am Leif Larsen."

The two wildly different women gave an identical curtsy; they must have rehearsed. The taller one shook a blowing strand from her face. "We know, Lord Larsen. Are you prepared for the bargaining?"

Leif felt his insides congeal into an unhappy bundle; the noise of yet more approaching vehicles pulling into the yard behind him. "Thought you were bunkin' with the centaurs."

A bright smile turned the elvish woman into a beautiful vision. "But of course! We are fully willing to share accommodations with our quadruped associates. But our races have different needs, and as such we must come to terms on what is, or is not, allowed within your territory."

"Ah." The rancher pushed back the brim of his hat, itching at the spot covered by its brim. Behind, the noise from people exiting the vehicles grew louder still. He withstood the noise for another few moments, then rolled his eyes and turned.

Roanette stood several paces away looking mulish – where had she come from? Flanking her were two groups of distinctly differing appearances. To her right were more elvish-looking folk, but the people to her left could be best described as – short. And green. Both parties appeared to be getting along well, if only by the amount of sound they generated. It was almost as if they were deliberately trying to cause as little _annoying_ sound as possible, while competing for how much of a _polite_ cacophony was possible, the most genteel riot that had ever sneaked up on his lawn.

The _only_ riot to have ever occurred on his lawn, come to think of it.

Leif exchanged a brief look with Roanette. Her frustration was clear, lips pursing for a moment as a small, greenish-brown individual gave her ebony tail a healthy tug. Her expression became a smile, although he could tell it forced. "Ro', you meet the new folk?"

The centauride's hindquarters shifted, _accidentally_ swishing the long tail into the face of the child-sized individual who was grasping at it again. "Indeed, milord. The dryads and centaurs have long since become associates in trade. You may remember our time at the The Place when we first met? Our talks included some information on the dryads, remember?"

There was a certain tone in her voice that Leif couldn't understand, but the smaller woman at his side seemed to hiss. Her voice cut over what Leif had been about to say. "Of course, _centaur_. You broke the agree—"

"Careful now," Aredhel leaned over just far enough to place a hand on the dryad's shoulder. "We have no need to cast unnecessary castigation. 'All's well that ends well,' as the Americans say."

Leif could sense tension in the air. Roanette and the two elvish women were glaring at each other with all the intensity of high-capacity cables. Maybe if there were a way to convert that energy into a more useful form – Leif shook the thought away. His ranch needed nothing in the lines of combative tenants, disgusting though the actual thought of strangers on his land.

"Um," he looked from one to the other. Playing peacemaker fell under his authority, possibly. Maybe he could hire someone to do that? But until then … "Is there a problem?"

The taller elf's smile had all the charm of a diamond: brilliant, sharp, and cold as ice. "Nay, good sir. 'tis nothing with which you should concern yourself. We shall discuss the matter in private."

Roanette drew herself up. "There is nothing to discuss. We had no plans to abrogate our commitments; every migration does not proceed to plan."

"Yes," Leif's head snapped back to Aredhel, "But a journey shared is based on trust. If broken, it takes long to repair. Compensation for the lost opportunities will be required, as your father knows."

"Preposterous!" Roanette's forelegs actually rose off the ground a few inches. "My father knows –"

The clearing of a large individual interrupted the growing disagreement. "Yes, daughter. I am aware of the circumstances." Large, dark eyes studied the elf. "Miss Lithlinede, a pleasure to see you."

Aredhel folded her arms. "Your silver tongue will not avail you here, leader of the centaurs though you be!"

"Is there a problem here?" Leif took the opportunity to step in once more. It was awkward, but he'd dealt with worse.

"We are merely somewhat aggrieved that our plan, decades in the making, was overturned through an alleged emotional display. Charity and compassion are laudable traits," Aredhel took a moment to flick her hair out of her eyes. "But the initial meeting and claim should have, by rights, been mine."

A headache began to pound behind Leif's forehead. He massaged it with stiff fingers, kneading at the pressure. This … was going to be a long day.

Salvation came from an unlikely source.

"Ladies, please!" Wesson's voice boomed out in a commanding tenor. His normally cheerful exterior looked disappointed, as if a favorite daughter were offering a poor report card. His voice dropped, a richer timbre Leif hadn't heard from him before. "We have already spoken about this; there is no need to give needless confusion to the esteemed Mister Larsen. We are here merely to meet, and make certain there will be no insurmountable difficulties in this endeavor. If we must discuss the situation further, well, there is a great deal of work to be done before the Exchange becomes public knowledge. May we not set aside our differences until a more auspicious time?"

Both of the elven women managed to retreat without moving, gracious smiles firmly in place. Roanette took a few steps back as well, resuming her normal position at her father's right side, half a length back.

Leif caught Wesson's eye for a brief moment, sending wordless gratitude.

"Right now," Wesson beamed back. "We should introduce the Ambassadors, of course. They will be travelling across the country, presenting their case to the various institutions that will be created.

Leif cocked his head to one side, glancing back at the taller elf; the shorter dryad remained still, eyes darting back and forth. "You're the ambassadors?"

"Representatives, actually, for your personal benefit. If I may introduce the ambassadors," Aredhel stepped forward, taking Leif's arm in a lightning-quick maneuver he didn't foresee, tucking it close to the soft portions of her chest. She guided him towards the taller group of elves. "Master Larsen, this is Elladen Taliman. Ambassador, Master Larsen."

A man with the same elvish characteristics as the elf holding Leif's arm gave him a sweeping bow, fluid movements showing an impressive amount of training. "A pleasure, Master Larsen. While my duties will prevent much interaction, I am certain we will accomplish great things together."

"Right kind of yeh," Leif's mind went blank, then locked on a phrase. "But just call me Leif. Or Mister Larsen if you have to; haven't been masters around here since the Civil War."

The elf's ears twitched. "I believe the term _mister_ is the modernized equivalent of _master_ is it not? If so, why would you object?"

Caleb leaned forwards, "An excellent question. I believe it is cultural; this country has suffered great indignities due to forced conditions, in the late 18th and 19th centuries, correct?"

"Which we would have known if we'd been first instead of _her."_ Aredhel's irritated mutter could be heard by all. Leif could tell how far it carried by the reddening complexion of the normally calm centauride still by her father's side. _"_ It will be ten times as difficult, now that she's got her _Lord_ riding her."

The centauride went pale; but small red points on her cheeks seemed to indicate rage rather than fright. "My master and I have _not_ 'ridden' as you say. But better he be saddled with one such as I than for your claws to be embedded in his flesh!"

"Um," Leif tried to interrupt, but was overridden. As a consolation prize he managed to free his arm; the elf seemed to forget about his presence in her anger. "Excuse me? Please?"

"Claws? How dare you, pillow-stuffing, fat-chested homeless vagrant! Your abysmal lack of culture is readily apparent to anyone with eyes!"

Leif took a breath, but once again was cut off. This was getting out of hand.

"'Tis better to lack the arrogant sophistry of your so-called civilization than to believe all the mistaken thoughts about 'ancient nobility'. Your ancestors fled every encounter, hiding in trees for centuries until they grew enough spine to beg for help!" Roanette fired back.

Wesson raised his hands, Seneca at his side, grimacing. "Ladies, _ladies!"_

He too, was unsuccessful.

Leif retreated, thinking and watching. Both of the women were apparently dead-set on lambasting each other as hard and fast as possible. In another timespan, if he recalled the bits of stories told by his second-oldest brother, there would be a pair of podiums and a pit for the poor folk to stand and watch, perhaps throwing peanuts and pebbles. The phrase 'peanut gallery' sprang to mind but, alas, he lacked the appropriate condiments.

No one appeared to notice his departure, save for the cringing ambassador, and an almost frantic Seneca. Leif re-entered his house, heading straight to one its more secure rooms. A few seconds of searching saw the gun safe dial spin open, its deadly contents exposed; he selected a classic Winchester Model 21. While old, it bore the traces of good maintenance, a cherished tool handed down through the generations … or at least _a_ generation.

Moving quickly, he broke it open, loading the double-barreled monstrosity with rock salt. After a moment's hesitation, he pocketed heavier shells, just in case.

Returning to the outside, Leif found the elf and the centauride engaged in close verbal combat. Roanette's species advantage lay in height and mass, leading her to tower over her opponent, leaning over to physically dominate, while a larger set of lungs gave volume he'd not heard outside of a drill sergeant back in town. Aredhel by comparison had not backed down, going toe-to-toe with the towering centauride; it seemed the tiny dryad at her side was making comments as well, firing them upwards in a tag-team effort.

Further back, he could see Wesson speaking animatedly with Roanette's father and the elvish Ambassador. Hand gestures and a calm demeanor gave some hope, but the grouping behind both chief ambassadors were already speaking in loud enough tones that he could barely hear himself think.

"Right, that's enough." Leif switched off the safety, pointed the double barrels at the sky, checked his angle, and squeezed both triggers.

Deafening thunder overwhelmed the clearing, a decent cloud of gunpowder and cordite blasting from the barrels. Echoes from hills miles away rebounded the booming retort, repeating long seconds after the initial sound had faded. Silence following the blast fell, as if the god of thunder had hurled his displeasure into their midst.

Leif glared at the audience. Every face had turned his way, a number had screamed, diving for cover. Staying wary, he broke open the slightly-modified Winchester once more, casually batting away the spent cartridges without getting burned. The quiet _click_ made by the emptied weapon closing seemed almost as loud as the blast from seconds before.

"If," his tone was quiet, but commanded their attention. "You have a problem, work it out. If you need to fight, make it official. A fair fight. No stakes. Just work out your issue, pound someone's face in, then help 'em to the doc. Are we done here?"

A light breeze wafted the last traces of smoke as he waited. Roanette and Aredhel shifted uncomfortably, eyes down.

After several heartbeats, Caleb cleared his throat. "An interesting idea for serious consideration. Now that we have met, perhaps we may return to the construction site? The contractors are eager to complete their tasks."

The elven ambassador was quick to agree. "Of course, we mustn't delay; there are still so many things to accomplish." His blinding smile turned on Leif once more. "A pleasure to meet you _Mister_ Larsen. In time, I pray your hospitality may be returned, once our residence achieves completion."

In an instant, both tall and short liminal folk jerked into motion, flowing back into oversized vehicles. It reminded Leif of a circus he'd once seen, when clowns had continually poured out of an outlandish vehicle; only now it looked like fashion models vanishing inside mobile constructs of chrome and black paneling. Within two minutes the last dryad hopped up the doorsill, engines turning over, and the shining vehicles pulled out.

Leif finally blinked.

Only Roanette, her father, and the two agents remained standing; the former talking in whispers that had all the politeness one could observe from afar, but their expressions suggested argument. Of the latter, Agent Seneca stared after the departing guests, mouth hanging open while Wesson clutched his forehead, shaking it in long, slow turns.

Finally, he took the shotgun back inside, returning it to the locker. It'd need cleaning, but he'd take care of that later. Right now there were fields to harvest, and perhaps a book on diplomacy to read. Somehow, he didn't thinkn this was how the event had been supposed to occur.


	3. Interruptions

Night time on the ranch. The absence of elves and centaurs made it feel like … well, what was rapidly seeming to become _old times._ Before myths strode out of legend and grew giddy over fruit. Long-eared elves with deep eyes and graceful words sought to grow ever-closer – until he’d had the presence of mind to set them to building homes in the centaur’s area. It felt like playing dirty-pool, setting their own competitive natures against each other, but he needed to harvest! There were a few scant weeks in which everything could be done, and even those remaining days were racing past.

Leif concentrated on the stars. Even that meeting with the elves – which could have ended better than his gunboat diplomacy, if he’d admit it to himself – felt months old. Technically it’d only been a little over one week, but now he ignored the small green people wandering his fields as if they were deer.

He needed a break to reality. Hence his little star-gazing sojourn, at sunset.

It was a happy scene for Leif, a time when the light faded into darkness, unleashing the subtle brilliance of galaxies overhead. Tonight would be a clear night, bordering on cold. He appreciated the way the air was beginning to bite at his nose; it was the gentle nip of an appreciative canine when rubbing its fur the right way. He knew the understated warning, to hurry. _Hurry._ Winter would not stay away for long; already the distant peaks were growing their long white caps. When that happened, the time he had left was less than a full month, sometimes weeks.

Crimson gleaming tail lights caught his attention. They travelled on the state road, based on the distant crunch of gravel and general position. Leif followed their progress, continuing to contemplate. An unexpected phone call that evening let him know of the upcoming delivery, one freezer courtesy of the American Exchange Commission. A good model too, larger than his other freezers, complete with warranty. That was nice.

An odd change in the vehicle’s speed made the tail lights stand out even further, recapturing Leif’s gaze. He watched as the twin tail lights flared, then went out. Its engine still ran, and he could still hear gravel crunching, until it changed to something different, more like the muffled rumble as a too-low car went over tall grass.

Frowning, Leif gauged the location, matching it to memory. His home was built on a hillside, granting a better view of the countryside than most. Based on mental geography, the nearest area would either be the pasture entrance just a few miles down the road, or the Zakapenko place – unoccupied until Earl went home.

Eugene trotted up, facing the same direction. After a moment he sat, ears raised, tail wagging just enough to declare his state of happiness.

“What do you think, boy?” Leif reached down, giving his canine companions ears a scratch. “Take a gander, or check it out in the morning?”

The border collie tilted his head, then shook it.

“Aye,” he nodded. “Not yet. If it happens again, I’ll take my rifle over for a look-see. Come on then, let’s go home.”

Dogs lacked the native intelligence for full conversations. It was a reason why Leif enjoyed having more people around, barring the unfortunate emotional content. Dogs didn’t want much more than work to do, food to eat, and a place to sleep. Give them a good scratch now and again, treat them with kindness, and their loyalty was undying. When dogs disagreed about position or social status, there was a bit of growling and snapping, and then the problem was solved. It was all automatic, inhuman logic combined with the pragmatic sort of thing only animals could consider. Admirable, from one viewpoint; to consider all known data, derive a solution, and accept a decision.

He could appreciate that.

“Pity humans can’t do that,” he murmured almost under his breath. The border collie sighed against his leg. “Always a mess. Now I got fillies throwing down on my lawn, feds pushing for Lord only knows what …”

The dog looked up at Leif’s lowered head. Its confused expression tugged at his heartstrings.

“Sorry boy, not your problem,” Leif lowered himself into a squat, then sat, one arm over the faithful companion. “My fault.”

Together the two stared at the stars, sparks against the dark-indigo background. This late in the year nightfall came earlier, but living in the temperate plains brought one north enough to delay true darkness by entire hours. Even now Leif could make out the lighter patch in the west, where the sun had vanished some time before. In mid-summer that would still be bright enough to read by, almost full daylight until eleven at night. Long days, short nights.

“Turning around though,” he commented. Eugene huffed a short agreement. “Long nights, short days.”

Thoughts continued to swirl in the rancher’s mind, orbiting that central problem like the ancient dance tread by the stars overhead, orbiting the center of the Milky Way. They had fewer problems – or so he’d assume. What did balls of burning gas find concerning to their existence? Did they have competitors, seeking out his favor every day? Earnest, well-meaning and even attractive young women displaying their charms in a fashion that only highlighted their own desperation?

_‘What to do. Don’t want to hurt ‘em, but that might not be an option next time.’_

“It won’t calm down.” Logic could tell him that much. The infighting between Roanette and Aredhel hadn’t gotten any greater than cold looks and snide comments – but emotional battles created the deepest wounds. Could he use human logic on centaurs, elves and dryads?

How to give them what they wanted, without the chaos such a gift would create. _That_ was a question.

An idea stirred in the depths of his consciousness, slowly forming. With a lifetime’s experience in methodical plant production, Leif considered it. Under inspection the concept had promise, if developed correctly. He took another long look at it, evaluating its long-term benefits. If continued, could it manifest benefits long down the line? Good fruit trees didn’t sprout fruit immediately, it took years of patience before good crops became available.

Silent, Leif wandered back to the side porch. He dragged a rocking chair from its protected location and set it down before the fire pit. In days gone by it had been a place family had gathered on fall evenings, near enough so the house provided shelter, but far enough away to avoid that closed-in feeling. He threw a few split logs into the pit, selected a promising shard, and sat down before the first flickering flames. His knife started peeling curls off the chosen castoff, skilled hands showing almost idle interest in the material.

This would take some thought.

[Two Days Later]

Rolling hills stretched across the horizon, each flourishing with bountiful lengths of golden-hued plant life. Rusty-orange stalks of dried wheat steaked through the fields, blending into the encircling green of wild grasses. What trees existed on the wind-blasted grounds bent close; evergreens standing tall while their less-hardy deciduous cousins crouched low. Careful eyes could see ears sticking out from the grasses at intervals; long instruments of auditory reception, capable of detecting a single grasshopper’s scuttling motions at fifty paces.

Swinging his gaze to the south, he heaved a small sigh. Hillsides formerly layered in verdant greenery lay bare in strips of denuded soil, brutally cleansed of any vegetation. Heavy equipment, newer and brighter colored than anything he owned, bit ravenous holes deep into the earth, as if feasting on the ground’s soft flesh. Each scoop built a pile of rich earth twice as tall as his own home, nearly as high as the main barn. Behind the pits, square stones made their presence known in the background, plain grey sharply contrasting against the verdant hill’s curving sides.

More machines trundled over the road carving itself into the land. Pristine prairie, once host to only cattle and the infrequent rancher since the last Ice Age, lay torn apart. _Blasted_ felt appropriate an appropriate term, _shredded_ perhaps. He would have to check the thesaurus sitting on his shelf on the trophy room’s shelf. Creating words suitable for the devastation took – time. Perhaps that sense of nervousness would dwindle, the slowly rising frustration borne out of so many changes. Again, that would take time. Planning for many visitors – or worse, _tenants_ – took vast amounts of time, especially for those such as he.

“Time is what I have though,” Leif murmured. Mentally, he ran through the list of tasks. He’d spent his time wisely. “Got three thousand harvested, hay on the east forty needs mowing, move cattle to fall quarters, harvest the western side – ” his voice fell into an almost-silent muttering, brushed away by the wind.

“Do you need help?” an familiar voice behind his right shoulder spoke up.

Leif jumped, heart beating a frantic tattoo against the back of his rib cage. Cursing silently, he nodded acknowledgement to the raven-haired centaur – _centauride_ – that had sneaked up so adroitly. “Morning Ro’. Thank you, but I’m just going over the chores list.”

Eagerness filled her voice. “Can we help? My sisters and I would be glad to assist.”

Strong effort kept irritation away. The centaur sisters infrequently left him alone outside his house; impatiently waiting to do something for him. _Anything._ The eldest, the golden-haired Alynette, appeared to hold a deep crush on his neighbor Earl, currently recovering in the hospital. Unfortunately, Roanette seemed determined against joining that interest, choosing instead to remain in close proximity to himself. Even after their time at The Place, she would not leave him alone – to the point of resting in the tree belts during his field work. Watching a _tractor_ above all things. Farming was the only life worth living in Leif’s opinion, but spending hours at a time watching a tractor churn across a field?

More unfortunate still, her youngest sister seemed equally determined, albeit in a different manner. Sophie was as quiet as Roanette, but spent her time watching his every move without saying a word, following at her sister’s side nearly every time he looked around. And yet for all her silence, she watched with a far greater intensity – like a naturalist observing a new insect for the first time.

Considering the differences in just three representative daughters of one centaur, Leif didn’t want to know what kind of breeding patterns were needed; Roanette had black hair and ebony flanks, while Sophie boasted a mane of fire – characteristics their brown-bearded father most emphatically did _not_ have. What kind of mother could produce such different offspring? Why did the children share their father’s attributes in such a solely oblique fashion?

A vague memory recalled itself, Roanette telling him of her father’s dozens of – breeding stock for lack of a better term. It appeared empirical evidence bore her aright; otherwise traits wouldn’t breed true in such a fashion. Hadn’t Arabian’s been imported as baseline stock for countless show horses in Europe? It sounded more of a harem than a herd however, but the similarities were striking.

Shame filled him for a moment; these weren’t _horses_ , they were _people._ Half-horse, abnormally strong, apple-obsessed people that allegedly went mad every full moon, but people nonetheless. And very attentive – so much so that it instilled a panicky feeling in his chest, a sensation he’d thought long gone by high school.

Stuck in neutral, Leif’s plan, finalized less than two nights before, nudged itself into the conscious portion of his mind. It felt cruel in a way, but work had to be done – winter came with brutal force, unsparing of emotion. If he were to keep working with bearable stress, he’d have to become equal to that void. “Well, I’m in a bit of a pickle Remember the Old Orchard? Out by the Place?”

Roanette’s long ears leaned forwards, quivering. “Yes Milord. The large orchard covering twenty acres south of your family’s ancestral dwelling? The vast holding retaining Lodi and Goodland and the secret breeds of your ancestral mysteries?”

Leif tried to shake off the sensation of two different cultures using the center of his brain as a jousting lane. Centaur perceptions held more importance on casual husbandry than he’d thought. He’d have to remind himself to not underestimate them – again. “Right. Well, it’s been a few years since anyone’s taken care of it. As you know, there’s a lot of fruit there, more than I’ll ever use. So. Got a proposal.”

A strange look entered the centauride’s expression, a cross of euphoria and trembling anticipation. It cleared as fast as it had arrived, smoothing into the perfect expression of polite attention. Her hands were working in front of her impressive bosom however, fingers twining in nervous anticipation. “I am listening, milord.”

He shoved the sense of unease deep, considering his next sentences carefully. It was probably the persistant usage of _milord_ , combined with her obvious hero-worship. “You get some of your people, and talk with the elves. Dryads. Whatever. I figger centaurs can pack away a heap more than humans at the table. Even neglected, I’m guessin’ ten thousand bushels possible. Call it maybe two percent for me this year, and to use myself. The rest I’ll leave to your judgement, Ro’. If you need flour, sugar, just let me know. I’ll pick up a couple hundred pounds in town for this winter myself, but if you need more ….”

Once more the world faded to a hot black realm. Leif half-expected something like this to happen, but it was still a shock being tackled by a centauride. Such was her strength that he couldn’t push free; instead he was lifted off the ground and shoved into her chest with the same approximate flexibility as the average girder. Faint squealing noises resonated somewhere overhead; his ears were muffled by the softness closing in on either side. There was also a great deal of motion going on, his legs swinging mid-air like an unbroken bronco’s loose stirrups. Chary of slipping, he tried to find a handhold, but wound up clinging to the centauride’s back in desperation.

All at once he was free, staggering a tiny half-circle, winded and blinking in the sudden sunlight. The three border collies off to one side were watching him with great interest; perhaps they believed this a new kind of game? Leif hoped not.

“I’ll begin immediately!” Roanette spun in place, pausing a heartbeat as raven-dark hair formed a brief nimbus around her face, then charging towards the sheds. A flicker of movement on the edge of his vision showed Sophie’s crimson tresses on a parallel course, easing his tension tremendously. In seconds the two erupted from the structure’s far side, bearing long-handled implements like lances. For a moment he mistook them for an errant cavalry charge, lances lowered for the attack – but very few soldiery had figures like _that_. Too, burlap would be a poor choice of armor. Leather might work, but not fabric.

For a moment, Leif focused on watching Roanette go, still feeling guilty. She meant well … but living alone for years tended to … prejudice one. He’d talked more in the past month than the past two _years._ Frightening, if he let himself think about it. He didn’t if he could help it. Which was getting harder.

Then something made its presence known, a hard lump stuck between his teeth and lip. Leif worked it out, and spat. A button landed on the grass, staring up at him like a tiny eye. A quick check showed every button running down his shirt in place – which meant – stopping that thought, he scooped it up, giving it a hasty swipe before depositing it in a pocket. He’d return it back to the centauride later. Her asset’s coverings needed all the help they could get.

Fortunately, work beckoned. Leif whistled, calling his dogs. They dashed to his side, following the same trail. Their antics warmed his heart; the way they frolicked among the tall grasses, leaping after small grasshoppers and playing tag. Scheherazade pretended to be uninterested, yet eagerly responded when baited – snapping her teeth playfully.

Leif nodded. No matter what changes occurred, work fulfilled in a way very little else could. It even drove frustration to bay, for a while.

“Master.”

The barest sliver of surplus self-control enabled Larsen to hold his temper. “I’ve said to never call me that.”

Aredhel bowed, long braids almost falling into the knee-high grasses. It surprised Leif a little, seeing an elf in denim. “I observe Lady Yidderman names you as her Lord. Why may I not do the same?”

“Different. Later. What is it?” Leif did not want to go over the intricate subtleties of ‘Master’ terminology, or how his efforts to get the attractive centauride to stop calling him some kind of middling royalty. Frustration for another day.

“As you command. What are your wishes for me this day?”

Leif pulled himself together. He’d planned for this. It would’ve been better to set down when they’d first arrived, but better now than later. “How good are your folk at hunting?”

The blonde elf’s eyebrows twitched. “Some are skilled indeed. Others less so. I possess some skill myself, but would not claim mastery of the subject.”

“Huh,” the sun’s upward climb still progressed. More haying could be done. ‘Make hay while the sun shines’ was an aphorism to live by. “See, the state’s getting less populated. More city folk, less country folk. Fewer people, more animals. But it ain’t balanced. Hasn’t been for a while.”

The elf cocked her head to one side, large eyes fastened on his.

“When settlers came, they cleaned out the wolves. Mountain lions too, mostly. Heard tell of a few out there, but it’s not enough. Deer are multiplyin’ too fast. Elk too.”

Her large eyes looked up at him. “You desire we cull the herds? How many and where?”

Leif straightened, turning to look west. Grandfather’s Shoulder rose above the treetops like an ancient citadel, forgotten and buried. It made a marvelous tracking point for times such as these. “See the forest, on the south side of Grandfather’s Shoulder?”

The elf glanced in the indicated direction and nodded.

“We call that the South Slope. Last two years I checked over the north and east sides, had to donate the meat. Pack it. Store it. Too much for one man. Gave away enough to feed a village. But the herds are growing too fast.” Leif twisted back, catching her dark eyes in as stern a look as he knew how. “Talk to the centaurs. Get their help. Get the wildlife down to sustainable numbers. If you get them organized this week, I’ll get you the numbers by Monday. Take your time. Do it right.”

She gave him an elegant bow, reminiscent of an old play he’d once seen. “I hear and obey, my lord.”

“An’ don’t call me –“ the elvish woman’s back was already retreating, racing through the tall grass like a leaping gazelle. “Ach. Ferget it.”

Leif waited, stock-still. So far as he could determine, no one stood nearby. From his position, the multi-ton loads dropped by construction hardware miles away was audible to the ear as quiet thuds, sometimes underfoot as well. He could sense the vibrations through the soles of his boots as well, obvious to a man raised on the Plains. But bipedal presence – or quadraped if he were honest – did not seem to be present.

One look at the road showed no vehicles. Neighbors dropped by on occasion, but not during harvest season. But there were no federal vehicles either. Even the military jets that could be seen practicing over the military base a few hundred miles off appeared to be taking the day off.

He grinned. Perfect time to get out into the fields.

* * *

Unlike many, Leif wore ear protection while riding heavy machinery. Lawn mowers put out around ninety decibels, if he recalled aright, not much less than the 1440 International he operated right now. Neighbors sometimes poked fun at the vibrant orange, noise-canceling headset he wore, but _he_ didn’t need to ask folks to repeat themselves all the time. Over half the county needed to do that these days, especially the male half over forty.

As the field’s edge drew closer, he spun the wide steering wheel around. The combine obeyed his command, its massive attachment slicing into wheat stalks, conveyor belts running the grain heads into the main channel, feeding the kernels into the hopper. Behind stretched over a thousand acres of stubble, the end result of a few weeks hard work. The fields most recently worked still had a floating layer of dust, sunbeams stabbing through the haze, visible when the eight-ton machine made its full turn.

Leif luxuriated in the solitude, a sense of accomplishment his closest companion. The only living creature in sight was the patient form of Eugene, who lay panting in the shade a quarter mile off. Solid steel rumbled beneath his feet, the six-cylinder seven thousand plus cubic centimeter engine thundering the song of his people. This was the culmination of a year’s patience, months of prayer and wary eyes cast heavenward. Preparation of the field alone took effort beginning before the year did, monitoring grain prices and projecting future values. Prices of fertilizer and pesticides worked into the equation with age-old worries; how much time could he spend planting and cultivating the fields? Could something else be planted that would make a better profit?

Here it all paid off. Bushel after bushel of golden wheat poured into the storage tank sitting behind Leif, more than thirty per acre if fortune smiled. Each pass along the field’s length allowed the twenty-eight foot attachment to consume more grain than a small village could harvest once upon a time. It gave Leif a thrill sometimes, knowing that his efforts equaled entire townships from centuries before. Of course it didn’t pay nearly as well as farming once had – bulk production reduced overall prices as any student of Adam Smith would know. But it still straightened his back on bad days.

_“I’m a God fearin’ hard workin’ combine driver,”_ the lyrics refrain resonated in the machine’s cab. One of the brothers – he forgot who – jury-rigged a set of speakers near the roof. _“Hoggin’ up the road on my p-p-p-p-plower, chug a lug a luggin’ five miles an hour.”_ He waited the percussive beat, and sang along. _“On my International Harvester!”_

It was a nice change from the classical genre played back in the house, Leif considered. But there were times when a little Western was needed.

One of the glass-faced gauges on the panel clicked over, catching his attention. Leif smiled, slowing the combine’s progress at the end of the next row. The storage tank was near full, better to disburse the load now than run into trouble overfilling it.

Parking at the side of the field took a minute; walking to his ATV took a few minutes more. Fields never grew regular amounts; what one field could produce in a year, another struggled to grow in three. It was part and parcel of being a farmer, tailoring optimal growth conditions, but it meant exact bushel production prediction an exercise in futility.

“Eugene,” Leif gave a short whistle, catching his companion’s attention. “Truck.”

The dog jumped to his feet, running before his hindquarters left their sitting position. Leif followed, watching as a quail pair took flight, startled by their passage. Reaching the ATV, he drove it back to the grain truck, tying it securely to the vehicles’ rear fender before driving both back to the combine.

Just as the hopper started its work, Leif noticed the faint _whoppa-whoppa_ noise of a helicopter. Pulling back, he scanned the sky, pinpointing the sound as he gained distance from the noisy grain falling into place. It was a new-looking helicopter, paint gleaming and as aerodynamic as one could desire. Leif could admire its efficiency, as the machine swooped in low over the treeline, circling back to lower itself on the gravel road. Backwash from the rotating blades threw dust in the air, chaff and debris flinging itself in massive whorls around the landing craft.

“Heavens to Murgatroyd,” a dapper figure climbed out of the passenger side, ducking under the blades. It bent double, running out towards Leif before the helicopter rose once more like an awkward bumblebee discovering it had company.

Leif waited until the suited figure approached. “Wesson?”

White teeth in a pale face glinted sunlight back at him. “You’re a hard man to find Mister Larsen. The elves were kind enough to give me a lift, helmets cover many traits it seems. Where have you been?”

Hours of productive labor gave Leif ample strength to deal with this city man. He nodded at the combine, its auger unloading wheat into the grain truck. “Workin’.”

The agent sighed. “I know, but there are several people waiting to see you back at your place. I told them we could meet today, since the elvish encounter seemed to work so well, despite the difficulties. Did you not get my message? I left a note on your door, and a recording on your answering machine.”

Leif thought back; he’d been out of the house by dawn the last three days, and only returned once since. “Nope.”

“A pity. Oh well, I got here in time. Shall we take your truck?”

The lanky rancher glanced back at the grain truck, still poised beneath the combine’s extended arm. “Half-full. We’ll take the ATV. Eugene. Home.”

Wesson blinked. “We’ll take the – wait. What?”

Ignoring the talkative man, Leif walked back to the combine, taking a light jump and landing half-way up the six-foot series of steps. Two fast motions had him inside the cab, twisting the small bronze key off. In obedience to the laws of physics, economics and Leif’s command, the towering contraption of steel and ingenuity shuddered, the augur slowing to a stop. Golden kernels ceased to pour out the pipe, leaving only the rumbling sound of the F600’s eight-cylinder engine. The grain truck too died into sullen quiet as Leif shut it off.

“You’re more nimble than you look,” Wesson ventured.

Without a word Leif moved towards the four-wheeler, long legs eating up the distance with ease. He reached the machine, flinging a limb over it, and gunned the engine to life. One glance gave his opinion on the agent’s lack of transportation – Wesson hurried to join him. A heavy thump shook the small vehicle, startling a yelp from the agent, and a curious whine from one large border collie.

Leif twisted the throttle. “Hold on.”

Behind him the suit-clad agent cocked his head to one side. “To what? Ahhh!”

His arms flew forwards, wrapping around Leif’s middle like a surprised python as the fine-tuned engine kicked into gear. The ground rolled away beneath their feet, turning a static scene of tranquil pastoral nature into a blur of nearby green and increasingly barren fields.

Leif loved the color in early fall. Fields turned gold, promising profit and reward for hard labor. Trees shifted from green to vibrant yellows and reds, fading to brown as their festive panoply exhausted itself. Leaves provided bulk cover, insulating roots and tree trunks, giving ready-made tinder for fire pits and old furnaces alike. The last fruits became ripened, trees released showers of protein-rich hazelnuts and black walnuts. He loved the walnut trees; their wood made excellent carvings.

A frantic pummeling at his abdominal region shoved Leif’s attention back at the frantic man, yelling at his ear. Wind combined with the vehicle’s engine, whipping the sound off into thin air.

Shaking his head, Leif poured on the speed. Eugene barked approval, poking his cold, wet nose into the back of the agent’s neck, reassuring the nervous man. For some reason, this did not seem to work as intended.

Leif roared through the next turn, leaning over to counter-balance. The last fields were some of the furthest from home, where it would take even longer to get back. These however were less than ten miles away, a distance he could cover on foot in no time. A frown creased his forehead; perhaps he’d have to work on his perception of ‘no time’ if multiple people were going to be counting on finding him. Time moved both too quick and far too slow out in the country. People judged time by the sun, when it rose and set, rebelling against its strictures with artificial light when necessary.

The tires crunched into clean gravel, heralding their arrival on the major East/West route across this Quarter. Bits of rock pinged against his undercarriage, alternating between metallic ringing sounds and the sad _thud_ sounds when contacting plastic guards. Trees, once a deep green, became a brown-and yellow blur as he sped up. Despite its age, the ATV could reach a few notches past thirty miles an hour; on the infrequent times Leif really opened it up.

Once in a while.

Maybe twice or month. Or week. It was no one else’s business but his own, wasn’t it?

He pushed it, reminding himself to repair the speedometer when there was time. No one cared out in the country, but with strangers around, it might be a good idea to have the little needle do more than bounce off the top end and back down every fifteen seconds.

Ahead the flagpole became visible – reminding him of the story about a grandma that ran up a dishtowel when her contractions were getting closer. Uncle Fred had been born without difficulties, but it was still an entertaining story to tell, especially to the people that couldn’t imagine living more than fifteen minutes from a hospital, or at least what they _imagined_ to be a short drive. Civilization had its benefits, it had to be admitted.

Leif released the throttle, letting friction rob the speedy little machine of its momentum. The four-wheeler coasted around the last stand of trees, coming into view of the main house and the multiple sets of – he wasn’t surprised any more – black and chrome vehicles out front. He checked his wristwatch, running a simple calculation. _‘Less than twenty minutes. Riding triple slows it down a bit.’_

Vibrations shook his body, then the sound of a landing collie met his ears. Wesson’s involuntary squeak brought a smirk to his face, wiped away as fast as it arrived.

He turned. “You alright there Wesson?”

“ _Perfectly_ fine,” came the dry response. The government man extracted himself from the vehicle’s worn seat, stumbling a few steps before regaining his balance. “What the hell is that thing? A bastard of a Formula One and a dune buggy?”

Leif took it as a compliment. “A little old, but in good condition.”

“Good condition?” eyebrows lifted. “I saw the speedometer go from twenty to fifty in fifteen seconds, on gravel!”

“Oh,” Leif frowned at the reminder. “Been meanin’ to get that fixed. Always something to do. Well then, where’s the folks you wanted me to meet?”

Wesson closed his jaw, shaking himself. “Right, right. They’re probably inside, waiting for you.”

Leif took a long look at the house. It appeared to be in one piece; no smoke poured from the windows, or even from the chimney. The windows were intact, reflecting the bright sky despite the afternoon sun’s place on the far side of the building. But they were unbroken as well.

“Well?”

A turn brought the rest of the vehicles into view. All were of average size, translating as no oversized humanoids like the Centaur vans. Only three were parked there, fewer when compared to the greater numbers witnessed with the dryad and elvish contingents. There had been at least three neighbors stopping by to check on the visitors after that, helpfully explained away by the magic phrases of ‘ _federal_ _contract_ _work’_ and ‘ _NDA’s’_ if they wanted to know more. It wasn’t unusual to get a visitor every few months – but so many so soon? That could be a problem.

“Aren’t you going to go in?” Wesson looked like the cat that swallowed the canary, satisfied with something he might not have a right to own, but unrepentant all the same.

Leif swallowed.

His footsteps thudded on the ground, making a hollow booming noise when he reached the porch boards. The storm door was closed, but the larger wooden door was open behind it. He could smell something cooking and see movement in the shadows down the hall. Carefully Leif eased the door open, jumping as a bell _he most definitely_ had not installed rang overhead.

Out of nowhere a trio jumped into sight. They looked normal – if one ignored the cat ears sticking from the upper sides of their heads, or the clothing which appeared to have been attacked by high-class moths with a taste for silk.

“Welcome home master!” the chorus hit Leif’s ears with the force of a tidal wave. He froze.

The lead individual stepped forward. “We wished to express our thanks for taking care of us. We are the _neko_. My name is Riley, and these are my helpers: Jasmine and Jennifer.”

Leif felt numb as he watched the two slightly smaller cat people drop into well-practiced curtseys. All three wore unseasonable attire, showing flesh-toned skin and fur. He could make out long hair as well, pulled back by headbands and bits of jewelry he’d never noticed on the elves or centaurs. There were even tails waving just within sight, lashing back and forth, the same way he’d seen farmcats behave when seeing a fresh bowl of cream. He’d never empathized with mice before – they were a pestilence to farmers all over. But at this moment, he felt a twinge of kinship.

“Again, welcome home master!” Riley sashayed forwards. “Would you like dinner, bath, or,” she giggled. “ _Me_?”

Decades of practice helped Leif in his hour of need. One hand found the door handle, opening it without forcing its owner to remove his eyes from the dangerously swaying invader. He seized the opportunity and grabbed the inner door as well, swinging its hefty weight shut, and let the storm door bang closed behind it.

“Something wrong?” Wesson was only halfway up the porch’s steps by the time Leif passed him. His half-spin might have been comical if Leif had been watching.

Leif hurried. _‘The Quonset, freezers in the Quonset. Gotta remember to thank Ro’ for doing all that baking.’_

The ATV buzzed to life, lending Leif its speed to the large structure. A cloud of dust rose at his passing, sending the smell of hot earth in his nostrils. Saddlebags lay in wait, oiled and waiting. It wasn’t exactly their designed purpose, but it would do.

Wesson caught up as he was loading the second saddlebag onto the ATV’s luggage rack. “What are you doing? Did you just abandon the _neko_ delegation during the greeting ceremony?”

Leif spared one angry glance in the agent’s direction. Then he resumed his work, dropping another loaf of bread with preserved meat into the next saddlebag.

“Answer me Larsen!”

The freezer door slammed shut, dust flying off the lid. “No.”

Wesson looked incredulous. “That – you’re going to be petty about this? Just refuse to answer?”

Leif paused. “What? No, that’s my answer. I’m not taking those cat girls. No way in hell.”

His answer seemed to stagger the other man. “B-b-but you signed the contract. You can’t turn them down. Besides, they’re a _huge_ signatory on the Liminal Bill, throwing them out would giving insult to the entire species.”

A third saddlebag landed on the ATV, bringing its shock absorbers rebounding in squeaky protest. “Then maybe they shoulda thought of that before prancin’ half-naked around my home, cooking my food, acting like some soddin’ hooker!”

Surprise made its way across Wesson’s face. “ _That’s_ what this is all about? You’re mad that they made advances towards you? You should be flattered.”

Leif stalked to another bench, selecting an array of batteries and loading them into a pouch. “That’s a matter ‘o opinion.”

Wesson rolled his eyes. “ _Neko_ are naturally flirtatious. It’s a part of their heritage, although I should note that once given their loyalty will never waver. They’re very good at household tasks, and this is their way of trying to impress you. A home-cooked meal is considered an invaluable treat in their culture; remember? Isn’t learning about their culture what this program is all about?”

The sound of metal sliding against metal was the only response as Leif worked an old safe open in the far side of the echoing building. A secondary door, in much better condition opened up, revealing a small array of firearms. Leif pulled out a rifle, checking its bolt-action with fast movements of nimble fingers, then withdrew an inconspicuous looking pouch. The rifle he slid into a scabbard, which attached to the side of the ATV; the pouch he strapped to his waist.

A note of irritation entered Wesson’s voice. “Look. I went through a lot of effort convincing the _neko_ to come out here. They could’ve gone to a city center; New York has a massive apartment complex they’re building for liminal embassies, and Dallas is making an arena big enough for both the minotaurs and giants to play at the same time. Japan already has the Kimomimi Theater, and every species sent a few representatives to sing for them.”

Another resounding clang of metal on metal came from a different part of the Quonset. Leif appeared behind the far side of a pickup truck, hefting a pair of metal girders. One end of each fit into the truck bed, extending to the ground in two straight lines. He tested them, leaning a boot on the flat surface and leaning before looking back at Wesson. “So. What.” Leif focused on the planks, once more testing their security.

Wesson exhaled a long, slow breath. When he looked up, the somewhat silly appearance had vanished, replaced by a serious, intelligent look. Leif could well imagine this newer man working in a cut-throat industry – maybe.

“Larsen,” Wesson rubbed his hairline. “I know this is hard. Shoot, I had nightmares for six months straight after meeting the Arachne. And I was trained for that!”

Leif paused, listening.

“I’ve worked with _neko_ before. They’re friendly, cheerful, and to be honest, needy. We surprised you with that; it’s my fault. I thought seeing some cute girls ready with a meal would be a nice change from … you know.” His arm waved a general arc.

“Angry elves and half-ton women jumping out o’ nowhere?” Leif felt his shoulders lowering.

“I wouldn’t say it quite like that,” Wesson cast a nervous glance behind. “But yes. _Neko_ are inoffensive, they’re a little temperamental at times, but easy-going enough. If you offend them ….”

Leif shook his head. “I’ll be polite. Only decent thing. But nothin’ on that contract talked about giving up _my own home_. They got over five thousand acres to run around; that’s a town you’re building on my land, Wesson. Not a few houses or some crappy apartment building. A _town._ Knew it would come to that. Doesn’t make me any happier.”

“Be that as it may,” Wesson shoved his hands in his pockets. “You have three unhappy _neko_ in your home, and their handler is going to tear a strip down your back if you don’t go back.”

Leif snorted. “So be it. I have work to do.”

“Really?” Wesson’s expression intensified. His movements were steady, disapproving. “Are you certain you want to do that?”

A low rumble emanated from the ATV; Wesson tensed, anger clouding his features. The wiry rancher guided it up the makeshift ramp, inching it forward. Within the confines of the Quonset, no one could be heard. Wesson waited until the four-wheeler settled in place, and tried again.

“Are you going to disappoint those girls?” he wandered closer, expensive patent leather shoes leaving sharp-edged tracks. A pungent scent of oil made his nostrils twitch; leftover spills from years of use. “They’ve been eager to meet you, you know. Apparently the centaurs have been talking you up, how strong and clever you are? Running a big ranch like this all on your own impressed the hell out of those elves too. Something about ‘a love for the land.’”

Leif shook his head. “No. If they want to live here, they live where the contract says they’ll live. If they want to visit, they come fully clothed.”

“You’re such a prude,” Wesson scoffed. “What’s the harm in having a little fun? It’s the way liminals operate. Half of the reason you received so much leeway in that contract was so you could do some hanky-panky, a _lot_ to be honest. Shoot, the State Department gives the entire Liminal division a dispensation for cultural interaction. The sooner you learn that, the easier it will be on all of us.”

A sharp whistle rose erupted from Leif’s mouth in response, shrilling in the confines until its reverberations almost pierced eardrum levels. It was the clarion call of an outdoorsman, used to open air and wide distances. It made those unused to the haunting qualities shudder, unused to such common actions. Eugene bounded inside, tail wagging. Seconds later, the two other collies loped in, tails wagging. Leif gestured, sending the three dogs into the pickup bed before heading towards the cab himself.

“Mister Larsen, _Leif,_ ” small pebbles, buried under layers of silt ground against hard-leather soles. “This is your opportunity to expand your horizons! Think of the future benefits this will bring!”

Leif paused, one booted foot on the durable truck’s running board. “I want them gone within twelve hours, Wesson. Send them to the elves, the centaurs, I don’t care. If they want to impress me, they need to show they can understand _my_ culture.”

Wesson’s expression turned ugly. “You are being very unreasonable about this.”

“Yeah?” Leif slammed the door shut. One window was open wide enough to talk through. “I’m a patient man, Wesson. I’ve given you land, time and patience. I _ain’t_ given’ you my home. Twelve hours, Wesson.”

The rumble of eight cylinders deafened the room with a diesel-fueled roar, a small cloud of exhaust visible for a brief moment. Backing the square-edged pickup through the Quonset, Leif made his way outside, just far enough to spin the oversized steering wheel over and take off. Glowing red taillights were the last sign of his passage, by the time Wesson stalked out of the building.


	4. Conflict

Leif continued his labors far into the night. Working angry was foolish, he knew that, but it was either work or coil up on a blanket, too angry to sleep. Working in the middle of the night without backup was also foolish – this was nothing new. A farmer on his own wound up working solo most of his career, and Leif had been alone for over a decade now.

It hadn’t started that way, but accidents and prior commitments had taken their toll. First one brother, then another, then a sister had gotten married, and his parents had that accident … no. He couldn’t really complain. The only reason he still ran the farm was because he _wanted_ it that way. Hired hands brought in once a year, harvesting a few fields was one thing; lending out land for a worthy cause bordered on excessive generosity. But both brought in cash, or resources he couldn’t make himself. But Leif preferred the solitude, he certainly considered it better than having vixens prance through his home, parading a life he utterly detested with every fiber of his being. Life came through hard work and self-control, not shameless indulgence.

The large watch on his wrist glowed under judicious examination. Its simple dial had the shorter arm resting on the fourth digit, while the longer arm hovered between the fifth and sixth numerals. A thin sweep-hand jerked along its breakneck pace, moving one space every second.

_‘You didn’t bother checking on the house,’_ a calm inner voice noted. _‘Either you do not care, or you trust Wesson to follow orders.’_

_‘Not orders’_ he contradicted himself _. ’Contract. Different.’_

It was a troubling situation. What had possessed that man? Hadn’t it been crystal clear how much Leif loathed company? Did the rejected attentions of two centaurides – and if he were honest with himself, every female centaur that had crossed his path – mean nothing to the man? Yes the cat-eared girls had been attractive enough, but nothing had been sent to warn Leif of their presence.

_‘Not quite true,’_ his innate sense of fair play drove into the front of his mind. _‘Wesson did tell you beforehand that you needed to meet with new tenets, didn’t he?’_

Accurate, in a limited fashion. Meeting new people had become a reality once the construction crews began rolling through. It put Leif on edge, like there was something standing just beyond the pale circles of his combine’s headlights, watching him. A ridiculous thought though.

Wasn’t it?

He jerked to scan the edges of his field, then relaxed. The bare moonlight was dimmer than a full moon, but sufficient to reveal the form of say, an individual as large as a dog, or horse for that matter. There were three dark blurs where his collies rested, taking turns to stay awake and watch. He wasn’t sure who had taught them that trick. It was a little unnerving, considering the thick rugs he’d spread in the truck bed for them. Under most circumstances they would fall asleep in no time; perhaps they sensed his anxiety? It was certain they were not shapeshifters – the last full moon he’d driven himself to town, purchased a few kits and a hotel bed for the night, and returned to check.

Then he’d felt silly. They’d been on the farm for years, as were their ancestors, all of whom had experienced nights of the full moon. Sometimes they howled a little more than normal, but that was dogs being dogs. It beat the increased crime rates observed by certain _human_ quarters, he wouldn’t begrudge the animals a little fun.

The headlights of his combine shone on plain grass, the next field processed. Leif raised the hungry maw out of the way and made a turn. The grain truck wasn’t full yet, but this load should do it. Then he could –

Leif slapped himself.

_‘Doin’ more work past four in the morning is plain foolishness. If a storm were approachin’, sure. But there’s no storm, no deadline, just a bad bout of emotions.’_ He sighed, turning over the wheel one more time to bring the hulking metal machine into alignment with the truck. _‘Time to call it a night. Maybe eat something and sleep, then keep going once it gets light.’_

If his calculations were right, that’d be less than four hours off anyway. Plenty of time for a nap.

On a clear night, in the middle of the Great Plains, a man could hear a sneeze ten miles away. History books told Leif that a baby’s cry could be heard twice that distance, depending on the baby and direction of the breeze. He felt shutting down the combine’s engine was like that in reverse. Taking the ear protectors off was like taking his head out of a bag of cotton batting, the tiny sounds of what few nocturnal creatures still moved resuming their cacophony.

Leif took pleasure in that sound. One or two frogs were sounding their last calls, most had already begun their deep sleep. A sleepy duck call or two resounded from the oxbow lake direction – what had the construction workers been doing there? They’d expanded a lot, connecting one end to the larger river further upstream. He’d have to look in on it sometime, see what trouble the construction crews were getting up to.

All three dogs were sitting bolt upright now, looking straight at him from the truck bed. He gave them a tired wave, chuckling when all three immediately dropped back down. They knew him so well.

He made his way over freshly-harvested field. Wheat was a good crop to grow out north, the durum variety taking the most care – and earning the highest price. It was a point of pride that he’d ensured the growth of over a thousand acres of the plant, closer to three if he were thinking straight.

A saddlebag yielded the cold stores raided from his freezer. Half-frozen pie was a good thing on a hot day, at night in a Montana September? Perhaps not so much. What had he been thinking?

‘ _I didn’t,_ ’ blunt honesty forced his conscience to whisper. ‘ _But there is a functional nine-volt and steel wool in the other bag. Why not light a fire?’_

He shook the thought away. This late, he’d just make do with a loaf of bread and some jerky. There were many nights spent that way, just the dogs and the stars, shining over a field cleaned by the strength of his own two hands. It was a satisfying feeling, seeing so much progress made by one man. Independence did that; there were city folk that got lost looking for bread in the grocery store – he made it from seed to pulling it out of the oven! When or if the alleged Apocalypse came, it would be farmers that lasted the longest, not target-rich, resource-poor hives of concrete and steel.

But Leif couldn’t help but consider as he sat, chewing the cool bread and salty meat. Arrogance was a mistake farmers couldn’t afford. Had he made a big mistake? Not some little peccadillo, a banana-peel slip and laugh. Had he made a true error?

All he knew for certain was that for the umpteenth time in as many years, he was doing his job, watching over his beloved land. But for the first time, he was feeling ... different. Like a voice should be asking questions, listening if he said something important, just … being there.

Leif stopped mid-bite. Shock bolted through his system, marshalling panicked brain cells into terrifying formations like his cattle smelling wolf. It was a strange thought indeed, one he hadn’t recognized but had been feeling for quite some time now.

Was he _lonely?_

The emotion went under careful consideration. No major investment could be made without calculated thought; matters concerning emotion provided exponential results. Worse, actions based on emotions proved treacherous, even during the best of times. Operating in vacuum was like broadcasting seed when one couldn’t evaluate the ground. Maybe something would grow, or maybe the venture would bear weeds. One thing was certain, a little emotion didn’t necessitate jumping into anything. Fools jumped before they looked, and Leif Larsen was no one’s fool.

Sleep was necessary, he decided. It had been, what. Less than two months since the Liminals had arrived? There was time to process emotions later. Years. Decades. Maybe never? Never was good.

A tortured groan rose from the depths of his chest. He just hoped slumber would be merciful that night, and come soon.

* * *

Dawn broke and with it, Leif’s slumber. Earthshattering revelations or not, sleep had never been hard to find. All farmers understood the basic principle: sleep when you could, work when you couldn’t. When neither was possible, find a way to make either a possibility.

This time he brought his meal into the combine’s cab, eating cold bread and meat with a gallon of water for company. He’d cleared over one hundred acres the previous twenty-four hours, and with luck he’d clear close to double that today. The sun-streaked sky was filled with vague promises of clouds, the wispy ones just barely within sight giving way to the lower ones that reminded him of whipped cream back on holidays.

“Good weather,” he commented. Unresponsive machinery clicked under his touch. “Good day to make hay. Or a little wheat, heh.”

The combine rumbled into higher gear, its front-mounted hardware whirling to life. Leif narrowed his eyes, gauging the distance with care. The metal edge came to a stop a short distance inside the field’s boundary, leaving a good six inches of wheat unharvested. Acceptable; it was an old tradition, dating back to the times when the poor gleaned a living from farmer’s fields. He’d turn a little sharp at the edges too, leaving a generous portion there as well. By itself it wasn’t much, but when practiced across his entire farm, it added up. Deer needed feed during winter, and for them a bushel or three could make the difference between life and death.

Once more the underslung blades cut into the golden stalks, rotating devices scything swaths of long stalks into the cutting teeth. Uneven terrain made the distant edges bend down, cutting just a few more inches than necessary, but nothing the tumbler couldn’t handle.

Leif’s mind returned to the subject rejected during nightfall, ruminating over its implications.

In the end, what did it matter? He’d seen the paperwork himself, the federal contract between liminal and human governments. There were lists and _reams_ of rules against fraternization between species. Wesson’s statements aside, there didn’t appear to be legal interaction possible. He was surprised the agent admitted to such a thing; getting drummed out of service was the least he’d have expected.

Recognizing the futility of needless worry, Leif put the problem on the back burner, letting his subconscious mind worry it over. It was a full-sunshine day, fields ahead filled with the golden-brown hue of ripe wheat. There were a half-dozen granaries stuffed to the brim, and no less than four truckloads either sold or waiting to be driven to the grain elevator. Should another be sold, or kept?

A smile blossomed on his face. These were problems a farmer loved to have. Down-to-earth issues of nature’s bounty.

* * *

By evening he’d accomplished over half his intended goal: close to a hundred and seventy-five acres harvested. Despite having to offload another two truckloads of the precious grain, his machinery had worked to perfection. Usual circumstances meant a tooth would’ve broken at the least, leaving a thin but important trail of unharvested crops in a long line across every field – Leif was generous, but not _that_ willing to donate the best of his crops. It took a few hours to haul in the affected combine, strip out the bad part, weld it back together again and reassemble it once more before returning to the field. Having solid equipment improved life’s quality dramatically.

He kept going as the moon rose, still in its near-crescent phase, but gibbous. Neither hide nor hair of Wesson or his liminals had made itself visible, although the unnatural reactions of the wildlife ensured his awareness of their presence. Geese didn’t take off like that in reaction to dogs; they were smarter than that. Something lurked out of sight.

But he couldn’t stop to check on them tonight. The last wheat field was under the edge of his blade now. Headlights threw their harsh, yellow glow across the waving crop, twin semicircles showing his personal achievement throughout the night. The wing mirror set over a dozen feet off the ground revealed the close-cropped stubble trailing out behind his vehicle, the spreader tossing bits of chaff and dried stalks out in a miasma of agricultural detritus.

Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. Leif made pass after pass, sweeping through the tall grain with a budding sense of anticipation. There was always a certain achievement to finishing a field, an entire crop. Soon the entire harvest would be in, a week at the longest, and the next stage would begin.

Before that though, he’d take a small break. The weather had been remarkable generous this year; it’d be foolish to not take one last withdrawal from its bank of kindness, if possible. Hunting was a pastime his family had cherished for generations – first to stay fed, then as a duty to the land. One sad family tale told of an utter lack of maintenance, and the massive die-offs of starving herds that resulted. Witnessing what had happened drove home the care a man needed to have for his land, not just the plants, but the animals under his authority as well.

But that was later. Now, the last few stalks were being sliced, fed into the processor and going into the hopper. Leif raised the blades and turned the great machine back towards the gran truck. Tonight, he’d relax by a fire. Tomorrow there would be time enough for uploading the success of another year.

As the faded red combine approached the place where he’d last left the grain truck, twin red sparks caught his attention. Tail lights, out by the property lines. Not the recognizable oblongs of Wesson’s government vehicles, but the more familiar shape of an old sedan.

Leif watched until the brighter headlights came into view, harsh against the velvet skies. It had turned onto the Zakapenko property. If he knew his topography, it was stopped behind a stand of trees planted in the last generation, invisible from the road in all directions but one. His. By all logic, no one would expect someone out here, unless they’d kept track of each field and drawn anticipatory correlating diagrams.

_‘Who could that be?’_ he wondered. Earl was still in rehab, getting ready to head back East. The Olsen’s were in a different direction, and knew better than to trespass after the last event. _‘Lost from the highway? Powerful long drive to get all the way out here. Maybe someone from the base?’_

He liked that idea even less. By and large the military presence kept money flowing through Bozeman’s city coffers; the soldiers were friendly folk as a rule. But once in a while its less intelligent members decided adventures in the rural regions was unavoidable. Vague logic, aided by the copious consumption of alcohol and powders of questionable legality, seemed to convince them that low population meant no witnesses. _‘If they try using combines for crash derby again, I’ll shoot first and ask questions never.’_

That was a bad memory.

“Might as well go see what’s going on,” he murmured. Eugene pricked his ears up, looking at him with dark, intelligent eyes. “Yeah. You come too boy. The girls stay at the truck.”

Walking cross-country was no problem for Leif. He knew every hillock and tree, played in its shallow streams before knowing what ‘mountain lion’ meant. Later he’d protected cattle from coyotes and wolves, herding them across the vast expanse through superior knowledge and tactics. Hunting only honed that knowledge from a keen edge into a razor-sharp, downright instinctive awareness. Darkness only made things a little slower, since he was trying to remain quiet while carrying a rifle. This very model in fact, an old Ruger handed down from an earlier generation. If he’d been thinking more clearly a less expensive weapon could have sufficed, but the value was well-placed; it was rugged, accurate, and whatever it hit _stayed_ hit.

Coming closer, he checked the safety, popping open the falling-block chamber just enough to see inside. One copper-jacketed bullet rested there, gleaming in the dim lighting before he slid it back with the ease of long practice. Extra rounds stayed in the cheek-rest, ready for use. _‘Better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.’_

Eugene nodded approval, trotting at his side, soundless in the dark.

The pair crept on, coming into aural range. Metallic rattling, of a muffler that needed adjustment, resonated over the ground. The car’s engine sounded to be in poor condition as well; Leif could make out the intermittent squealing of the serpentine belt. It brought a frown to his face. Lack of manners aside, this individual was either no mechanic, or didn’t care about the state of his hardware.

_‘Don’t know what’s worse,’_ Leif stayed in the shadows, now close enough to see the car’s license plate. In-state, but the numbers weren’t distinct yet. _‘Not takin’ care of your gear, or not carin’ enough to not take care of your gear.’_

The crunch of another set of tires sent him deeper into cover. A second vehicle, its engine under far better maintenance than the first, rolled into the drive. Contrary to common sense its headlights were dark and its owner had ensured the connection between the brakes and tail lights severed. _‘Or the fuse was disconnected. Easier that way – yeah. Newer car, twenty-ten Chevy what’s-its-name. Useless in both town and country? Avalanche, that’s it.’_

A dark red vehicle rolled into the main drive, and came to an almost-stop. Its driver spotted the parked sedan, and rolled close. The buzz of windows coming down reached Leif, but the words spoken were muffled.

_‘Gotta get closer,’_ he shifted his rifle to a different grip, one an old Russian immigrant had taught the family. Grasping the foresight with his left hand and letting the stock rest on the forearm of his right arm, he let the sling around his neck take the pressure. Movement was awkward, but still faster than standing still.

More words drifted across the night air. Terms he didn’t recognize, referencing ‘Product’ and ‘Merchandise’ … were they using code words out in the middle of nowhere?

“Good enough place to meet next time,” he froze as the next sentence came in full clarity. It sounded male, but raspy, as if spoken by a smoker. “But there’s too much attention at the neighbor’s.”

“Don’t worry about Larsen,” a female voice answered. “That oaf’s always worked up about harvest or something on his farm, saw him working past midnight yesterday. The Feds are doing something though, probably that Preserve thing they’ve been going on about for the past couple years.”

“Huh,” the male voice responded. “Could be a good thing. Nobody’s watching the east side, everything’s focused on that building project going up. You have the truck?”

“You betcha,” she responded happily. “Figger we can fit ten-mebbe-fifteen head inside. Next week?”

“No.” the male voice changed to a cold tone, decisive. “Tomorrow. Too many things are changing. Bring the truck, and you’ll have thirty kilos after we load up.”

“Done.” The woman’s voice seemed equally firm, although inexperienced by comparison. “See ya then.”

The red tail lights brightened, then dimmed once more as the older car pulled away. Leif recognized the license plate, one of Olsen’s cars. The driver’s voice had to belong to Brunhilda Olsen, Rupert Olsen’s somewhat chunky second daughter. Old man Olsen had only two daughters, the eldest lived out of state, if memory served.

Leif waited until the second car pulled away. Unlike the Olsen’s vehicle it took its time, delaying until the other’s lights had vanished. Montana’s flat lengths were long, its high points visible from miles away. Even then it idled on the downslope, letting gravity do the majority of the work rather than risk the carrying sound a revving engine made. Ridiculous in Leif’s opinion; while quiet, just the running Chevrolet put out enough sound to alert nearby listeners.

After the last sound had faded, he waited another five minutes, listening. A distant frog persisted in its call, defiant of the cool night, but no man-made echo could be heard.

Leif rose to his knees, keeping an ear cocked towards the road. Walking at a slow pace did nothing for his nerves, but the silence assuaged that pain.

At his side, Eugene stiffened, looking into the trees.

_‘Company,’_ Leif touched the safety. It made a quiet metallic sound as it went live. _‘Little noises, thought I heard something.’_

In all likelihood it was one of the liminal folk. Their need to keep tabs on him was annoying. _‘More than annoying. Infuriating. I’ve been fine on my own for years. Don’t need a nanny.’_

Not hearing the noise again, Leif eased the safety back in place, and exercised his heels.

Eugene bounded at his side, for once not acting his usual carefree manner. Leif admired that about his dogs, cattle too if he thought about it. They tended to read body language much better than humans, sometimes to the point of reacting before he spoke.

_‘Do these liminals have that too?’_ he wondered. _‘Ro’s been pretty good at listening, especially when I’m not talking. Maybe I should look into that. Care and Feeding of Centaurs or something. Next edition, Elvish Upkeep and their Dryad Sidekicks. Hah.’_

Eugene made a soft whine, bringing his attention back. They were approaching a good clip now, over halfway back from the house.

Thoughts spun a slow dance through Leif’s mind. _‘Ten to fifteen head, she said. Cattle rustlers, probably. But from where? Wait, Earl’s? Nobody been there for a couple weeks, a few extra head in the pastures wouldn’t be too noticeable. But I’ve checked and re-checked. No different brands, no extras. Unless they’re meaning to take his cattle, it has to be something else.’_

It took three more strides before another thought slammed home. _‘Wait,’_ he came to a full stop, Eugene frozen at his side. _‘Brunhilda’s farmer’s daughter. She’d use ‘head’ to describe any kind of livestock. Sheep. Chickens. People.’_

A low fire smoldered in his chest. _‘If she’s human traffickin’, there won’t be enough left to bury.’_

[break]

A large tent had been set up in the treeline near the truck. Unlike most temporary structures, this one had a zippered flap nearly seven feet high, and walls stretching upwards almost double that. The whole thing was made of camouflage material, cunning stuff that blended in with the background. Leif saw it only because of its current position, a flat wall illuminated by an interior light. No stand of trees shone like that.

As he strolled closer, a triangle of light brightened on the tent. A tall figure cast a dark shadow dozens of feet into the night, a woman over six feet tall, dark against the background.

Leif stopped, hand on the stock of his rifle. “Hello the camp.”

The figure moved out. “Leif? Is that you milord?”

“Ro’?” he moved into the light. “What’re you doing out here?”

She shrugged, spilling hair off her shoulders. “My duty, milord. I have ensured the orchards are being harvested, and we are collaborating with the elves to provide bulk hauling duty. There is truly an excess of deer in this land, not so many as I have seen on the East Coast, still a surfeit nonetheless. But how are you, milord? You seem … tense.”

Leif hesitated. “Going to have to set up a posse. Cattle rustlers tomorrow night.”

The raven-haired centauride’s entire posture changed. She stood taller, muscles bulging. “’tis true milord? I shall summon a guard. We – oh. _No._ The rules ….”

“Yeah,” he took a chance, stepping close enough to pat the tall being’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

Even the darkness couldn’t hide the fierce blush heating up her face. Every muscle felt tense at his touch, but she did not move. “Of-of-of course, milord. Bu-but what will you do?”

Leif shifted away. He’d been around enough horses to know when his presence made them nervous, and what was a centauride but a human with horse-like traits? “Up at dawn. Ride around, get a posse together. Have to skip the Olsen’s. Brunhilda was there.”

“Who?” she tossed her hair back over her shoulder, eyes narrowed. “This _woman_ dares steal from you?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged. “Wasn’t clear.”

“I shall tell Agent Wesson,” the centauride stated. She pulled out a large cell phone, from a place Leif did _not_ permit himself to stare. “Criminal activities is well within his purview.”

He snorted. “Sure. Then I’ll wake up some morning to find a goon squad in my basement. Maybe those sirens from Homer, in bikinis. _Maybe they’ll turn the cellar into a swimming pool!_ ”

The stillness following made him realize how loud he must have been shouting. Shame spread outwards, starting from his heart. Yes anger was a valid emotion, but of all the people deserving his ire, Roanette was among those least deserving. “Sorry. Lost my head there.”

When he looked up, the centauride was – smiling? There were wet spots on her cheeks, which meant tears. Or rain, but he could see stars. “… Ro’?”

She shook her head. “No, it is … ‘tis quite all right milord. I am honored you trust me so. I do not believe I have seen you lose control since we have first met.”

He was struck speechless. Was she – _thanking_ him for losing his temper? Granted the woman had been understanding in the past, but this was borderline insanity. “You’re serious.”

“Oh most definitely,” she nodded with vigor. “I hope you will feel more comfortable with me in the future, but this I will take for now. May I call Agent Wesson? You will of course have jurisdiction over the operation, the contract ensures this, I will verify it myself.”

Leif just nodded dumbly, an action the woman took as given, vanishing into the depths of her tent. For his part, Leif spent a few moments – hours? Days? Time felt odd when emotions were involved. Eventually he shook himself back to alertness. The woman was strange, no doubt about it, _very_ strange. But … it was a strangeness he could get used to, perhaps. Maybe she’d be a good worker, heavens knew she understood horse-work like no other he’d ever encountered.

But that was food for thought at a later point. For now, he needed sleep. The moon’s ghostly bulk was long gone, and he needed sleep.

He seized a number of horse blankets from the pickup cab. Ignoring the conversation sounds emanating from the illuminated tent, he stuck to his feet, following the dirt road. It lead him back to the combine, its silent frame still against the gentle ministrations of a cool breeze. He’d parked it with slumber in mind, beside a hay bale a good six feet tall and just as wide. Before laying down, he cast a narrow glance around the field.

“I would count it a favor,” he spoke in a clear voice, stern without anger. “If I could at least _sleep_ without being watched?”

Nothing responded to his words.

Sighing, Leif spread the first blanked on the ground, the tough fabric a poor mattress, but the springy grass making up for such deficiencies with admirable efficiency. His hat landed beside the blanket, worn sides still proud and tall. Like himself, he supposed. Tired, worn out, but more than capable.

Done with philosophy for the night, Leif set his mental clock as all good hunters could. He wrapped himself in a second blanket. The breeze ceased reaching his clothing, the blanket insulating his body heat. Enjoying the moment, Leif settled on the first blanket, reached out to tip his hat over his eyes, and relaxed. The moment only became better when Eugene settled by his side, sharing what heat he put out with Leif’s own. The next day might bring trouble, but the present was pretty close to perfect.


	5. Agreement

Leif returned to his home shortly after the sun reached its zenith, whistling a little tune. His pickup swayed on the gravel road, creaking as aged shock-absorbers scrambled to compensate. Finishing the turn, he felt an overpowering urge to flee at the sight of a pure black SUV sitting in his driveway. Instead he drove with care, parking the venerable cargo-hauler under the trees before getting out. He stretched, arching backwards towards the sky, noting the cloud-cover as he did. Partly sunny skies coated the dome, promising fuller cover at night. He smiled.

His dogs trotted around the side of the house, yipping a friendly greeting. Scheherazade and Dunyazade only paused before returning around the corner after seeing him.

He followed them, avoiding the front door. To his surprise, Roanette was standing in the back, holding the wood ax in both hands. As Leif watched, she pulled the tool back over her head, its metal back coming within an inch of her own, before bringing it down in a swift arc. It bit deep into a thick log standing upright before her, the blade stopping deep in the wood.

“Arrrggghh!” her frustration boiled over. One hoof kicked the log, knocking it free of the ax. The force of the blow sent it back into another log, completing the split by accident. “How does he make it look so easy?”

Discretion was the better part of valor, Leif decided. A quiet exit would spare the horse-woman’s dignity. Unfortunately, his retreat was spoiled by Eugene’s welcoming bark – delayed by what tomfoolery went on in that animal’s mind.

“Oh, milord!” Roanette looked at the ax, then at the shards of wood scattered across the yard. “This isn’t what it looks like! Um, maybe just a little. I’m not destroying anything!”

Leif took in the pile of odd-shaped chunks of wood forming an uneven pile. Loose bits more suitable for kindling spread across the ground, larger slabs rested in a neat pile. He shrugged. “No problem. Got plenty of wood. Need help?”

“I am fine,” Roanette started, but she paused, thoughts running visible across her face. “Well. Perhaps you could instruct me? I am not used to this.”

He gauged the sky, checking for the white circle of the sun glaring through the layer of clouds. “Got time. Need to set up coffee and some grub for late afternoon though.”

“Of course! I have already prepared some trays, and Aredhel is ensuring a supply of coffee is available,” the centauride offered the ax handle, looking timid.

“Right.” Leif moved forwards. He selected log, cylindrical and flat-sided, and nodded. “Right. Watch.”

He set the log on end, and took a step back. Holding the ax by the heavy end, he spun a small circle, checking for obstructions. Finding none, he seized the haft with both hands, drawing it up with one hand near the end, the other close to the head. Flexing the long muscles in his back, then drawing the rest taut brought the blade in a swift arc, splitting the log into two even pieces.

“Let the axe do the work,” he set a new log in place. The long hickory handle extended behind him as he took a different stance. The blade whirled up and over to split the target once more. “Slide your main hand down, use your off-hand as a pivot. Just takes practice.”

“I see,” the large centauride edged closer. “Could you perhaps, guide me?”

Leif handed her the axe once more. “Um … yah …?”

Roanette grasped the handle, clutching its length in an awkward double-handed grasp. She gave him a hopeful look. “Like this?”

He’d just started to reposition her grip when the back door opened. The slim form of an elf exited, looking towards the horizon before coming around to see the two. The pointed ears and blonde hair rendered identification simple, although the expression seemed alien on her graceful features. “Ah, there you are! Mistress Roanette, if you are quite finished? Lord Larsen is expecting guests, and I simply must show him our progress.”

Roanette stiffened; Leif could feel it in her muscles, quivering under his rough calluses. Surprising, given he was holding her lower arms, nowhere near the arteries. But she just gave a sweet smile. “Of course not Aredhel. Do you require assistance …?”

“No no,” the elf smiled back. “You keep on, I mustn’t interrupt the firewood procurement. Milord?”

Leif had the distinct impression that some form of byplay eluded his notice. He considered the two women, evaluating their body-language in the same way he’d watch a new heifer before entering the pen. There was tension between the two, not as strong as the last time he’d seen them together, but still present. That made sense; new herds were always suspicious when first introduced, their alphas bickered over position until things settled down. It would happen eventually.

“The specialists will be here soon,” Aredhel added. “Miss Roanette, if you could ensure there are no … issues, once they have arrived?”

“Of course,” the sable-haired centauride still hadn’t relaxed. “I hope your efforts are going well?”

Leif decided to interrupt whatever contest the two were engaging. “Sorry, Ro’,” he took a squint at the axe blade. “Looks like the blade could be sharper. I’ll do it later. Keep up the good work,” without thinking he slapped her withers. She jerked, hind-legs bunching up before relaxing. Had he angered her? It was an unconscious move – which he now regretted.

A blush spread across her face, recently acquired freckles fading into the russet coloration. “Oh. Um. Thank you, Leif, – milord! I mean, Milord Leifson. _Larsen_! Oh … kill me now ….”

Lacking options, Leif chuckled, sparing a friendly grin in her direction, hoping it betrayed no concern. Rapid escape seemed the only solution now.

Inside the ranch-style home the air smelled like a bakery. The ever-present scent of apples remained, but modified by the spicy odors of cumin, some pepper he didn’t recall purchasing, and coffee. The last was a common scent in his home, indeed, almost every farmer in the state knew the aromatic odor. _This_ made the strong, plain beverage he favored seem weak by the smell alone, like a steel scythe in the hands of a man used to simple galvanized iron. He could feel the hairs inside his nose prickling.

“Again, welcome home milord,” Aredhel gave a brief curtsy. “There are pastries set for repast, and the espresso is percolating. Agent Wesson is awaiting your leisure in the drawing room, do you have any requests?”

Leif examined his home, going over each detail with an eagle-eye. “Any eavesdropping doo-dads?”

The elf’s eyebrows rose, then fell. “Not to my knowledge, milord. I could arrange a sweep for sabotage units, if you wish?”

“Nah,” his cultural background turned the simple word into a guttural dismissal. “Can do it myself later.”

Taking care to not touch the expensive-looking clothes she wore, Leif moved past the shorter woman and made his way to the trophy room. It was one of his favorite rooms in the house, filled with the remnants of earlier generations mixed with those of the current. Heads of antelope hung on the wall, horns from a massive bison making contrast with their pale fur. The antlers of a moose, nearly seven feet wide, had a place of honor over a fireplace’s mantlepiece. Pictures stood at irregular intervals between laden bookcases, images of first hunts, grandparents and a prize bull, and at the center of the room, a family portrait. The picture was more of a work of art, showing four generations of Larsens all in the same frame, cousins and children near the front separated by family if you knew how to look.

A thin figure stood looking up at the masterpiece, arms clasped behind his back. Wesson turned as Leif entered the room. “Mister Larsen.”

It was a cool greeting, expressing neither joy nor sadness. Leif could respect that. “Wesson.”

The other man turned back to the mantelpiece. “I was surprised to hear your request for assistance, given our last exchange.”

Leif felt one eyebrow rise. When had he asked for help … unless Roanette’s request had been … phrased … that … way.

_‘Blast.’_ Either he threw her under the bus for trying to help, or pretended the whole concept was his idea. Neither idea was palatable. Instead of answering, he grunted, and moved to the gun cabinet he’d used a week prior. It opened with ease, presenting its contents for perusal.

“Cattle rustlers.” Wesson still didn’t look at him. “Roanette was insistent you needed us to come out here and help you with them.”

A long rifle’s polished stock slipped across Leif’s skin like silk, blending into black metal. He passed over the hunting rifle with regret, reaching deeper into the cabinet for something less elegant, but more practical given the situation. This time his hand withdrew a Lee-Enfield, its worn patina still smooth but proof of long service. If one knew where to look, the designation once given it in its creation was visible, stamped into its very essence physically and otherwise.

“What … is that?” Wesson couldn’t hide his curiosity.

Leif pulled back the bolt action, peering down the barrel before closing it with a satisfying click. “Lee-Enfield, Number Four, Mark One. Grandpa Larsen brought back one after his tour in France. Still have his Em-One somewhere.” His hand dipped back into the cabinet, returning with several magazines, each loaded with long rounds. “Three-oh-three caliber, zeroed at three hundred yards. Ten shots to the mag, one-hundred and seventy grain to the bullet.”

He set it down on a nearby table, steadying it for a moment before returning to the cabinet again. This time he reached lower, withdrawing a revolver. Its dull steel had an oiled look, leaving a faint residue on his fingers. Leif frowned. “Old Peacemaker, forty-five. Maybe fifty yards if I practiced.” He hefted the handgun’s weight in one hand, frowning. Shaking his head, he put it back. “Not good enough with it.”

Wesson’s eyebrows were climbing. “You have a full arsenal in this house, don’t you?”

“Eh,” Leif selected a sleek-appearing handgun, pulling back the slide to see inside. “Huh, nine-teen eleven; Aiden’s, I think. Big family, loved hunting. What were we going to collect. Playing cards?” a chuckle made his shoulders shake. “Can’t see one of those stopping a coyote. Or a rustler.”

“Yes … these _rustlers._ ” Wesson’s voice returned to the neutral tones from before. “May I ask why you believe they are a credible threat?”

Laying the sidearm on the table next to the rifle, Leif started withdrawing small packages of bullets. A filled magazine, lead gleaming through the cracks stood on end, soon joined by a pair of twin companions. “Don’t for sure. Talked to a few neighbors, have a posse gettin’ ready to roll.”

“Oh?” the city man quirked a smile. “Then my associates are unneeded?”

Leif leveled his gaze on the man. “Posse’ll be sitting at their homes, guns loaded and watching for fireworks. If anything happens, they call me. The centaurs and elves and such stay hidden. You and your crew, with me.”

A moment of silence punctuated his sentence, sending the rancher back to work. Clicks of metal on wood continued as he found another rifle, this one shorter but no-less lethal. Leif checked it over, then leaned it against the table, stock on the floor. This time he found new shells, shoving longer rounds into place. Its steady repetition created a rhythmic pattern, soothing to some, bringing fear to others. He didn’t care.

“So. Tonight.” Wesson withdrew to the mantelpiece itself. “I have two squads on their way right now, undercover. And yes, I mean _undercover,_ a few pickups and a van. They’ll be arriving on the far side of your property within an hour. A third squad is in place at the new property you just bought, establishing a perimeter. Thoughts?”

Leif closed the gun safe, heavy metal doors expressing a resounding crash. “I asked Roanette to send scouts. Elves too. Rustlers’ll probably be out by the Zakapenko’s; nobody home. Lotta cattle. Pull in, cut out a few beeves, drive away. Fifteen head’ll be easy to shuffle somewhere else, Kansas maybe. Nebraska more’n likely.” He pushed a magazine down into the Lee-Enfield, ratcheting the piece in place. “As grandpa used to say, this is nothing more than Darwinism in action. Combat Accelerated Darwinism. They want my stuff, they’ll have to take it from my cold, stiff fingers.”

“I can believe it,” Wesson remarked drily. “Any plans on including liminal support?”

He shrugged. “Scouts, like I said. Figger Ro’ll want to come along. Coordinate her scouts. Not sure about Aredhel. Talk to her later. Need a shower.”

“Are you certain?” Wesson gave him a strange look. “Remember what I said about actions …” he stopped. “Never mind. I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

Suspicious, Leif gave him another searching look. The man seemed candid, but who could tell these days? At the least, it was the man’s job to defend his charges, and there didn’t seem to be any attempts for bringing people directly into his home. Grudging, but definite, Leif gave him a nod, and left.

Cold water turned hot, a steaming sensation that he relished after days in the fields. He stood under the nozzle for ten minutes, letting the pounding water soothe aching muscles. Enjoying the simple pleasures in life made the rest of it worth living. Hot apple pie did it too, especially if vanilla ice cream was involved. But hot water ranked up there among the finer pleasures of life.

After showering, Leif took a nap. Long hours in the field meant tiring times; he’d be better-able to concentrate if rested. This was going to be a long night.

* * *

Later afternoon came with a deafening crash. Leif came awake in a flash, sliding off the bed into a crouch. A hickory walking stick came to his hand, ready for use.

_“I told you to look out for the coffee table!”_ a hissed whisper came down the hallway.

Leif’s face darkened. But the voice sounded familiar ….

_“Sorry! I said I was sorry!”_ a second voice hissed back. _“Did I break anything?”_

Fingers tightened on hickory. _“Nah, just messed up the book pile – uh oh.”_

The sound of heavy books falling to a hardwood floor rumbled from the distant room. Frantic noises, like rubber tires and a fast-moving individual wearing them, interrupted the cascading sound. Additional thumps and a muffled curse followed, and after a few seconds, a very distinctive ringing crash of broken glass and the unmistakable rolling _ka-ring-ing-ing_ gifted by a round object doing its best to imitate a Euler’s Disk. Dead silence ensued, fittingly broken by a single voice.

_“Uh-oh.”_

Leif stopped too, listening.

_“That was probably some heirloom going back to the Ming dynasty! Boss is gonna rip your head off!”_ the hissing voice returned. _“I_ told _you to be careful! When the Boss is asleep, you – ah great Googly Moogly ….”_

He blinked. That wasn’t what thieves would say. In addition, think what he might about Wesson, the man was armed and probably a good shot. A quick look at the clock showed five hours had passed, enough for … quite a lot to have happened.

Straightening, he walked towards the sound, which seemed to come from the front room, a living room for all intents and purposes. The scent of coffee and fresh pastries came clear through the air, wafting a delicate fusion of caloric energy into his nose. There was so much caffeine in the smell alone that he felt awake just by inhaling it.

The living room was just as he’d left it, minus an irritating federal agent, plus a man in a wheelchair, a mess on the floor, and an old-timer standing as far as he could from the entire situation trying to look innocent.

Leif checked the floor first; a gaudy vase someone had left behind lay in pieces, the metal tray its water-filled contents rested upon still shaking on the floor. Several volumes squatted beside the pile of misbegotten ceramic, pages spread open, crumpled under the pressure of their brethren. Then he looked up at the visitors.

“Earl? You’re here?”

The wheelchair-bound man smiled the widest grin Leif had seen in years. “Uh, Boss! What a surprise? Got discharged today, wanted to see how things were going. Heard about your little dust-up coming down and picked up Gramps. Sweet little espresso machine you got there, when did you get it? Looks brand new!”

“Ah. Right.” Leif looked up again. “Gramps?”

The old man hugged a massive bit of weaponry an older generation had deemed a _rifle._ Modern definitions believed something of its general size and powder requirements better defined as _artillery_ , but the man was stubborn, old-fashioned, and a very good shot. “Youngin’. Heard ya got a bit of a pest problem.”

“Aye,” Leif checked out the back window through the corner of his eye. No centaurs or elves were visible, the axe embedded in the chopping block. “You willin’ to help, Gramps?”

The older man was missing a few teeth, but his smile was that of a confident predator. “Brought my best gun, Ol’ Reliable,” his hand patted the weapon fondly. “Just set me up and I’ll plug ‘em good.”

“And their neighbors, and the hill behind the neighbors,” Earl continued. “Plus whatever those government types got locked in the silos _behind_ the hill behind the neighbors. What is it, a Sharps?”

“Fifty-ninety, Sharps. Hand-loaded the cartridges meself.” Gramps patted the stock again. “Just you keep your horse women out o’ the way, boy. I ain’t going to shoot ‘em, but my eyes aren’t as good as they used to be you know.”

Leif stopped, focusing on the old man. “I beg your pardon?”

“Nothin’, I ain’t seen nothin’.” Gramps set his weapon down, butt first. The barrel’s weight made the coffee table shift. “Just remember: I’ve been living in these parts over ninety years, boy. I’ve seen a whole lot, and _some_ folk just ain’t as good at hiding as they think they are. Now I’m gonna get me some of that _kuchen_. Old Country _kuchen_ ain’t something to be missed.”

Leif watched the wizened older man take small steps, advancing to the kitchen. For such an old man he moved fast, and with a self-assurance only long experience could grant. Then he turned back to Earl. “You feeling alright Earl?”

The wheelchair-bound man shrugged. “I’m feelin’ better now that I’m out and doing something. Stuck in that hospital … it was insane, Leif. I haven’t been so bored in my life.”

“Aye,” Leif checked the corners. No feet stuck out from under the drapes, and the closets were firmly shut. Where had the liminals hidden themselves? He made his way towards the kitchen. “Been getting ready to head out East I suppose? Unless you’re serious about taking me up on that offer.”

The wheels squeaked behind. “Well … about that. I’ve been chatting with Alynette. Remember her? She says you’ve hired her sister to oversee things with that big Federal project going down.”

Leif stopped. “Yeah … what about her?”

“Well,” Earl pulled alongside and folded his hands. “After you bought the ranch, she said you were thinking of using it for her … ah … I’m not sure I can pronounce it. But her group while they get accustomed to the States. Some kind of big visitation program going on? I was hoping you could tell me more about it. We’ve talked on the phone every day since you first started visiting, thanks for giving her my number by the way.”

He’d done no such thing. This had to be a prank. But when he looked at Earl, the guileless man’s face held no hint of subterfuge. “Earl,” he started slowly. “Do you know right where Aly’s from?”

“Somewhere in Germany, I think.” Earl responded cheerfully. “I know what she looks like, I saw her once when the window was down. But is she as pretty as she sounds?”

Groaning was the only response Leif could make. He shook his head and continued into the kitchen. A full table of high-calorie cookery met his gaze. Sausages looped around a large plate of what had to be the thickest pudding he’d ever seen. Coffee cake, three plates of it, sat by a colony of coffee pots. He could see cinnamon rolls, the kind Roanette made, resting on one side next to an apple _kuchen_ , two pieces of which were missing, located soon by looking sideways at Gramp’s plate. He’d already consumed one and was halfway through the second.

The old man spotted Leif and swallowed hard. “Good woman. Haven’t had _kuchen_ this good since Germany. Who was it, the pointy-eared lady or the black haired one?”

Leif turned around and left the room, seeking a flat wall with a supporting beam against which he could manually reboot his brain. But before the ritual could start, the screech of brakes came through the open front door.

This time Wesson knocked before entering, granting him a grudging point from Leif’s perspective.

“Mister Larsen?” he stepped inside. An awkward look was on his face, a patent leather shoe nervously toeing a crack in the floor. The agent settled. “Now that you’re showered, rested and in your right mind, may I ask where you’ve been the past three days? I’ve … I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”

The rancher gave the smallest of shrugs. “Workin’.”

“Yes, but where? The centaurs wouldn’t let me enter past the first hundred yards, and the elves were even worse! You didn’t sleep at that smaller house, or the woods house ….” The man stopped at Leif’s furious glare. “Long-range surveillance only, I promise. Telescopes and drones. All the bugs have been removed from your property, I _promise_.”

“Right.” Leif vowed to go over the internal structure of his home with a fine-toothed comb as soon as there was time.

“What if there had been an emergency? What if you had been injured? This entire endeavor rests on your well-being.”

Annoyance tingled along his spine, but self-control won the day. “Had work to do. Harvested over three hundred acres. Good crop too.”

The agent rubbed his forehead as if warding off a headache. “Mister Larsen, you are aware that I could make one phone call and acquire an army of farmhands to do this for you? Granted that might be a little excessive, but I could hire enough workers to clear every single field within a few days.”

“Good for you,” Leif could smell the coffee, it called to him. “’Ro’ knew where I was. Others too. Had eyes on me all the time. Annoying.”

“Quite,” Wesson’s voice was dry. “And are you going to tell me you slept outside for three days and nights?”

One shoulder rose and fell. “Napped a few hours. Worked the rest. Next?”

A disbelieving look crossed the agent’s face, but he kept the sense to not question it. “Well then. In response to your call, thank you for that by the way, I know it must have been tough, the first squad is here. Are – ah – you _ready_ to set out?”

Leif rolled his eyes. “Bring ‘em inside. Chow's in the kitchen. Might as well get ‘em watered and fed before we go on the stakeout.”

Wesson’s eyebrows rose. “That is … kind of you Mister Larsen.” He took a few steps deeper into the house and glanced into the kitchen. “Who’s the old man? And is that your neighbor?”

“Yep.” Leif selected a gun belt from the coat rack, securing it around his waist. It was leather, and worn, used for carrying farming implements in better times. “Gramps already knows, and Earl is apparently talking to Miss Alynette daily. Don’t think he knows she’s … what she is though. Up to you mister government man.”

A heartfelt groan emanated from his guest. Combined with slumped shoulders and a bent head, it seemed to indicate heartfelt loss. Leif took a moment to consider. As host, was it not his responsibility to guide his charges’ integration to humanity? In a month the entire secrecy aspect would be nullified, granting naturalized citizenship to the few on his ranch. Would it not behoove him to introduce these new citizens as competent, capable personnel? Especially if he were to hire Earl as they’d been discussing off and on.

Another sigh built up from his boots. Then a thought struck; the agent was a professional.

Most of the time.

If one squinted, shaded their eyes and had rose-tinted glasses.

_‘Enough. Can’t control him, but you can control yourself. Your ranch, your people.’_ He felt the sensation of another large decision coming down again. _‘No escapin’ it. Gotta do it.’_

“Wesson,” he took the Colt from off the table, checked its safety, and slid it into the holster. “Just … don’t get a heart attack.”

The other man straightened. It looked more like a swaying motion than a rising to alertness, but under the circumstances Leif would count it. The government man gave the kitchen a suspicious look, but spoke in a hushed voice. “This … is not protocol. I knew there was a troublesome chance of discovery beforehand, but, how did he know? And who gave Mister Zakapenko her number? It’s a security leak I can’t let go, we’ve been compromised. This is going to cause _so much paperwork!_ My budget is going to go through the roof.”

Leif paused, then put a gentle hand on the agent’s shoulder, touching it with the same care one used on skittish colts. Words sometimes weren’t needed. More people could talk less in his opinion, but sometimes silence was the only way to communicate. It was held there only for a moment, but such was the way things worked.

Boots, solid outdoor wear made of tooled leather thudded across the floorboards. Leif passed the kitchen, gave a nod to its occupants, and pushed the screen door open. Passing outside he scanned the yard.

Unlike small city plots, the ranch’s yard was as spacious as the word once suggested. The wood pile delineated an intermediary border, starting at the north side of the house, and running west. It provided shelter when the winter blizzards hit, as well as an easy guide to the barn. Even in white-out blizzard conditions, a farmer could leave the house, walk along the wood, and reach the paddock fence not too far from there. Leif followed that line, turning to follow the fence to the barn, and inside. He needed to heave open the front door, a clue since he’d left the door open days earlier.

“Ro’?” he stopped well inside, facing away from the front doors. In the rear, there were a pair of sliding doors hanging open, another hint. He raised his voice, not quite to the loudest capacity, but enough to exit the solid wooden structure’s walls. “You here?”

Clip-clopping of hooves resonated against dust and gravel. Moments later, the tall figure of the centauride occluded the open doors on the far side. “Milord?”

Leif relaxed. “Ro’. Saw it?”

“Of course,” the centauride walked closer. She wore a heavy sweater in concession to the weather, and a long woolen covering for her more equine half. He’d noticed that even the most horse-like of centaurs lacked the true build of beasts, but it was still close enough to outmass every human he’d ever met. Her dark hair looked windblown, and a light sheen was on her forehead, as if she’d been running. “I had no time to both warn you, and withdrew through the back. Aredhel managed to retreat with me, and is now updating her clan.”

“Good,” he paused wondering how to break the news. Uncertainty – an unfamiliar sensation – tugged at something he couldn’t describe. “Ro’, … um ….”

“Yes?” she waited, hands folded at the waist.

Leif shook off the mental cobwebs. “Gramps knows about you. Saw something sometime. And Earl … he’s really falling for your sister. Wanted to talk with you before I said anything.”

Her ears flicked forwards, pointed directly at Leif. “I … see. This is earlier than we had expected. Do you mean to reveal our presence so soon?”

“No!” he held up his hands. “No, I just … I don’t know. Don’t feel right not telling Earl. And Gramps said he’s not really interested in anything.”

Warmth bloomed from his shoulder, where Roanette’s hand clasped it. “Milord. _Leif._ I trust you. I’ve trusted you since the day I watched you face a stampede for your friend, the man in whom my sister is _very_ interested. My trust grew when you treated me like an equal, like a partner despite your desires and customs to working alone. If you believe showing ourselves is a good idea, I will trust your judgement in this as well.”

The young rancher stared at her shining eyes, noting how her long fingers twined around each other nervously. Then he closed his eyes and sighed. “Ro’, that’s … flattering. And pretty to hear. But it doesn’t tell me what you want.”

Roanette settled herself. “But it does. This ranch is your domain. My people are here to establish a safe haven, true, but also to learn how to interact with humans once more. Your judgement –“

“I _know_ what you said, damn it!” Leif bit back his anger. Hurting a young lady wasn’t in either of their best interests. His mind sought a solution, and stumbled upon an idea. “Look. One thing we have running in America is Fair Play. Everyone plays by the same set of rules, everyone has a fair shot at the top. I know the rules, you don’t. I can’t make decisions for you, you won’t learn anything that way. Tell me what you want, and I can tell you if it’s possible.”

He stalked forwards a pace, getting good and close to make sure his point drove home. She was frozen in place, watching him like a rabbit noticing a coyote. “Ro’. Tell me what you want.”

Her ears were pricked forwards, taking in everything. Her eyes were suspiciously bright now. “Wha-ha? What _I_ want?”

Alarm bells began ringing in Leif’s head. He eased towards one side, where the haymow’s access ladder stood. Among all the skills he’d seen centaurs demonstrate, there was a distinct lack in climbing, and the ladder stood a few scant feet away. He kept his voice low and soothing, like dealing with an anxious colt. Filly in this case, he corrected himself. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilating wider at each step.

“Yah,” he tried to relax, letting a smile come up through unconscious effort. “What do you want? It’s your decision too, y’know.”

Her ears went still. “I … I … want ….” Her voice went into a quiet burble, and she blushed, ducking her head behind the curtain of satin-black hair.

“Um,” Leif paused, within reach of the ladder. Her words had started out normal, but then rushed into a vernacular he couldn’t understand. “What?”

He could practically see the blush through her hair; it wasn’t a complete barrier after all. But the roots of Roanette’s ears were turning pink, expanding their coloration to their tips. “I said,” she looked up, straight at him. The fiery blush hadn’t faded. “I wish you would accept my offer.”

Leif filed that under the strange things liminals said on occasion. _Crazy Liminal Sayings_ , he’d call it.

“Let’s try this again,” Leif sat on one of the ladder’s lower rungs. “You want something. I don’t know what it is. I’m a simple man, please keep things simple for me?”

“Oh—veh – very well?” she straightened, her legs as well as her torso. It gave her a more distinguished look, reducing the impression of a highschool girl being confronted with an attractive instructor. “Lord Larsen, I hereby offer my services in personal transportation. You, and only you would be granted the privilege of riding me. I promise to keep your secrets, and bear your burdens as long as it is possible for me to do so. In return, I ask that you protect my people. Watch over them and guide their steps into this new era.”

In the silence following her small speech, Leif tried to think. The logic was there, the words lay in readiness, but the actual thoughts themselves were reacting in the same fashion as a clubbed salmon: stunned, and in an unfamiliar environment.

His first urge was to use the hand grasping the ladder’s side, and flee. There were no supply caches in the haymow, a paucity he’d correct later, but a sufficiently knowledgeable individual could escape through the eaves, out the side and … and … where would he go?

_‘This is my home,’_ his thoughts began their torpid return. _‘Where could I go? A fine mess you got yourself into. How would things have changed if you just held your ground that first day and threw Wesson off your land? How much easier?’_

A low whickering drew his attention. Morgan, the injured gelding taking up residence in one of Leif’s stalls, was looking over the side of the stall, inhaling great gusts of air.

_‘He’s alive, for one thing. Woulda died without the centaurs. Without Roanette.’_ A counterargument ran swift interception. _‘Wouldn’t have been in that position if Earl weren’t showing off for the same centaurs – but I can’t say it wouldn’t have happened anyway. Earl’s smart like that.’_

He closed his eyes. _‘Blow it all for a game of soldiers. I’m not cut out for what she wants. I’m a farmer. A loner. I hate company, and I hate having my decisions made for me.’_

Unbidden his thoughts turned to the days he’d spent out in the fields. Of weeks where every day the centaurides had ‘somehow’ made too much lunch for themselves and hunted him down to give the excess. Leif considered the hard work they’d demonstrated, picking apples and storing them in careful barrels, like gems for future use. Even the elves were trying to be useful, managing the wildlife, overseeing their more reclusive dryad cousins. But they hadn’t pushed, they’d respected his boundaries.

Leif exhaled, like the horse a few steps over. _‘Can’t really back out now, can I? I let them in. My fault. Only one to blame is me, by Jiminy.’_

“Three things,” he kept his eyes closed. “First, I ain’t a leader. Never have been, never will. You know that, right?”

The centauride standing before him said nothing, watching carefully.

With a sigh he made a very conscious decision to release the ladder’s edge, dropping both hands into his lap. Roanette relaxed as he did so; startling him for a moment. A heartbeat later he scolded himself; she could read the room as well as he could, an trait he should’ve expected. “Second thing. Wesson told me that riding a centaur was a big insult. So I won’t be doing that for a while. Cultural things, I guess.”

An amused look crossed her face, but she remained silent. Leif appreciated that.

“Third thing,” rising put a strain on his lower back after the long week, but the next part had to be said standing. “We’ll work on this together. I mean _together._ No master, no servant. If we’re going to do this, we share the load. Blame and praise both. Agreed?”

Roanette looked down at his outstretched hand, then back up before looking down once more. A massive grin spread across her face. She took his hand, pumping it vigorously. “Agreed.”

Leif almost wilted in relief, and smiled back. He didn’t even protest when she swept him into a massive hug again, pulling him tight against her chest once more. Some things he could fight; an enthusiastic centauride? Maybe another time. For now, maybe they’d finally get out on the trail. They’d wasted enough time … but a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt anything either. For the first time he reciprocated, stretching his arms around the centauride’s back, returning the gesture.

The overpowered response, pulling him up off his feet made him black out. Again.


	6. Maneuvers

Leif approached the back door, once more possessed of the calm inscrutable manner he'd always exhibited – excluding certain federal agents that surpassed mortal tolerance. Behind he heard multiple footsteps, more than one set of centaur hooves crunching through long grass and dead leaves from the nearest tree belt. The light patter of elven feet made less noise, but he could still hear it if he paid attention.

As agreed, he walked in first. Wesson stood at the dividing point between kitchen and living room, a group of black-suited specialists arranged around him like an honor guard. One had her face-plate open, slit-pupiled eyes widening at the sight of Leif's approach. She snapped the visor shut leaving him to shake off the surprise, confident his poker face remained stable.

"Earl, Gramps," he ignored the features invisible behind smoked poly-carbide plates. He also ignored the half-eaten tray of _kuchen_ , a missing dozen cinnamon rolls, and what appeared to be a nearly depleted five gallon jug of heavy cream sitting on the living room's drum table, covered in part by a shuffling soldier's hasty movement. "We have an hour to get ready. Got some folks for you to meet."

The federal agent stirred, but stopped almost before he moved.

"Oh?" Earl spun his chair, moving with the same ease he'd displayed on horseback. "Who?"

Leif clicked his fingers at the open window. "You remember Alynette, right?"

The younger man's eyes widened, pupils jumping between Leif and the opening door. They grew wider still as the red-headed centauride stepped inside, ducking a little under the jamb. She'd spent a few frantic minutes brushing her hair, straightening clothes and making a general panic about meeting someone in person. Roanette had attempted to calm her down, fishing out a few baubles from side pouches, including a necklace of dark stone in silver settings and an elegant snake-hide belt. Why the two felt the need to engage in an impromptu primping session was beyond Leif – but he filed it away for future reference. It _might_ be useful someday, improbable though it was.

"I'll let you two catch up in a minute," Leif kept a stoic look on his face as the two stared at each other. Inside he was laughing at their dumbstruck expressions. He waited another handful of seconds, before clearing his throat. Getting no response he coughed into one hand. "If you could clear the doorway, Miss Yidderman?"

With a start, the centauride sidestepped. She started to back away when she realized her movements brought her closer to Earl, but by then Roanette had entered the door frame, blocking the centauride's hasty retreat by force. Roanette gave Leif a quiet nod. "Milord."

He returned the nod. "This is Roanette, Alynette's sister. There's a third, Sophette, but she's prepping I guess, haven't seen her in a while." Leif motioned at the red-haired centauride. "Aly will be staying here with Earl to keep the lines clear. If the rustlers hit elsewhere, I've got a few neighbors keepin' an eye out, an' they'll call here. _Capiche_?"

Earl seemed afraid to move, but gave a tentative nod.

"Good, 'cause we're not done. Aredhel here," the elf stepped in the door, hips swaying in a model's catwalk. "Is doing a little scouting for us. She's an elf, works with the dryads."

"Milord." Aredhel sank in a graceful curtsy, the form-fitting denim jeans somehow conveying elegance. "I bring news: The dryads have chosen to remain in cover. If you desire their presence, they will come, but only if you deem it necessary."

Leif glanced around at the two. Gramps was staring at the elf with a strange expression, Earl was still looking at Alynette. "We're good. Any movement at the Zakapenko's?"

"None," she shook her head, and brushed back her hair behind a long ear. "But I can confirm there are tracks, signs of vehicles in the barnyard area within the past few days."

"Damn," he frowned. "Afraid of that. Wesson?"

The man somehow managed to look dapper, even when surrounded by combat-geared figures. "Good. We're ready to move when you are. For the duration of this event, I am Alpha Lead, and this is Alpha Squad. Bravo and Charlie squads are in the field, looking for holding facilities and watching the roads. There have been no reports, which leads me to believe this is either for the cattle, or a transfer."

He paused as Gramps popped open a gallon-size thermos, and started pouring coffee into its innards. "Mister Larsen will be Principle. I would say that Bravo Squad should be focused on protecting him, but I believe the centaurs and elves have that covered?"

Leif staggered as Roanette's hand clamped on his shoulder. "We do, Agent. But additional support would not be amiss."

"Indeed," Aredhel interjected, gliding into place on Leif's other side. "We do not wish to deprive our new countrymen of his presence before his time."

"Done." Wesson motioned at one of the helmeted figures. The soldier backed out of sight, reaching for a clunky-looking satellite phone. "But we'll also need Mister Larsen present for identification. Where do you want to set up?"

Gently disengaging his arm, Leif tried to make a little space for himself. Proximity to both the dark-haired centauride and the light-haired elf was a little close for his taste. "There's an old deer stand in the trees, not far from the Zakapenko's. Gramps'll set up there. I'll go a bit further, act as spotter for him. Right Gramps?"

A coffee pot slammed on the table with more force than necessary. Cold eyes met Leif's own, betraying nothing except frigid control. Men, and most women, had it; no one survived the rural lifestyle without a deep determination. But they kept it under wraps, hiding the terrifying view under a guise of humor or laconic speech. Here, the old man hid nothing, letting the caustic durability of the Plains show to everyone.

"Yah," he screwed the thermos lid back on. "Sounds fine."

Leif held back a frown. The garrulous old man had his issues from time to time, but the abrupt, cool method of speech was uncharacteristic.

Leaving it alone, Leif opted to fill a plate with food. Farmer's meals, by and large, were an exercise in strategy: eat as much as possible in fear of missing later, or skip meals entirely in favor of getting work done. Breakfast was a large affair when possible; the rest of the day depended on its nutritional strength. But the meal before a hunt, that counted for much as well. Better to eat and prepare.

"Mister Larsen," the respectful tones were new in Wesson's vocal pattern. The city man waited until Leif had turned to face him, plate in hand, before continuing. "Agent Seneca is in position with the elves. Bravo squad here," he gestured at the dark-armored individuals surrounding the two of them, "Requested the position of protecting you. They wanted to apologize for their earlier … attempt."

Leif washed down his filled mouth with a large gulp of coffee. "I'll take your word for it."

Eyebrows rose on the agent's forehead. "You do not object?"

"Well," Leif paused to inhale another bite, buying time to think. Speeches were not his strength, and after the show he'd had to put on, his brain felt frazzled. "Can't say as I'm jumping for joy, but second chances are only fair. Keep it decent, do the job. That's all I care about."

"You will find Milord Leif a generous liege," Roanette stepped in, addressing the silent group. "He will not punish you for errors in judgement. Work hard and prove your intentions, and his rewards will transcend your greatest dreams."

He threw a startled look in the centauride's direction. She gave a smile in return, redirecting it back to the helmeted figures, who were now angling helmets toward each other, as if speaking outside hearing range. Despite their closeness no sound escaped their synthetic material coverings, but he could see little movements of shoulders and head, with an odd twitch in the hips thrown in from time to time.

"Ach," Gramps stumped past, picking up his rifle. The formidable weight failed to bow his aged shoulders. "I'm headed for the stand. Still got the shutters on it? Chair set up?"

Leif nodded, checking the older man's face. It looked stressed, something he'd seen on rare occasions, when they'd discussed the past. Not fear, he decided, or even anger. It was more of an ancient sadness, hidden behind decades of hard, sun-filled labor. Something in the past few minutes had reminded his neighbor of memories locked away.

"Key's on the ladder," he caught Gramps's eye. It was a small gesture, but he knew immediately that the intention was clear. The side of the older man's mouth twitched, a miniscule cue, but a sure sign he'd be fine. "Lunch box?"

"Bah." Wooden floorboards thumped under solid leather boots again. Gramps ignored his query, pulling on his hat and stalking into the reduced sunlight.

"Earl," Leif changed directions. Another mouthful of high-calorie perfection shoveled into his mouth, caught and swallowed in moments through years of hurried mealtime experience. "You good?"

The younger man glanced over at him, still resembling a clubbed trout in part. Alynette didn't look much better, standing a few feet away from the wheelchair, tension pulling her shoulders forward as if worried it would bite her. Earl shook his head, then again like a wet dog. "Huh, yeah. Yeah I'll be fine. Just a lot to take in, y'know?"

One of Leif's shoulders lifted, a Gallic shrug, courtesy of a rather forceful personality a long-gone uncle had bequeathed the family. "Happens."

The rest of the plate's contents disappeared into Leif's gullet in short order. Around him the armed folk consumed their own portions with equal rapidity, some electing to turn away as they ate, others lifting their head coverings, almost daring Leif to react. He ignored them as usual, wolfing down another brace of sausages; it would've been better with the tempting sauce sitting next to the plate, but the sun was getting lower.

Washing the plate took thirty seconds, a timestamp that would've horrified his mother. Leif spent the next few minutes checking his sidearm, ending with slotting its deadly length into the holster. More magazines fit in place, leaving his arms free to don a thick leather jacket. Its lining was threadbare, but the material was dark and supple, perfect for quiet movements. His Lee-Enfield hung on the shoulder strap, its wooden parts showing their age but as sturdy as the day it had been built.

He steadied its swinging weight with a hand, and focused his attention on the nervous centauride, standing near, but not too near his neighbor. This was going to be fun. "Miss Yidderman?"

Two pairs of long ears twitched in his direction, one set in black hair, the other in a mane of fire. He rolled his eyes. "Miss _Alynette_ Yidderman."

Roanette relaxed settling back to rub a cloth over the barrel of what appeared to be a long rifle.

"Miss Yidderman," her eyes were wider than normal. "I need you to keep an eye on my friend here."

She nodded vigorously, "Yessir, I can do that sir."

"Now he's skittish," Leif ignored an indignant exclamation from the impaired man. "He's also headstrong, loyal, smart and willing to do near anything if he thinks it's a good idea. That's a problem."

Her head tilted, a puzzled look in her eye.

"If he gets it into his fool head to try riding shotgun, or draggin' his chair out to plink some idiot with his pea-shooter, Earl'll try to do it. He's willful, got a heart of gold, and the common sense God gave a chicken."

"I wouldn't say I'm quite –"

Leif fired a glare back. "June Second."

Earl sank back into place, frowning. "Whatever, boomer."

Ignoring the _non sequitur_ , Leif addressed the centauride again. "So keep close. If the phone rings, he answers it but _you_ run messages out. If there's something making a noise outside, Earl stays _inside_. If he starts to go somewhere without you, I want you to go with him. If he keeps trying to leave, sit on his head. Do whatever you deem necessary, I'll back you up."

The centauride was blushing hard enough to heat the air, Leif believed. Before she could say a word, he spun to fix an eagle-eye on his also-blushing friend. "As for _you!_ "

Earl froze under his look. "Um …."

"Miss Yidderman here is the Ambassador's daughter. She's been training for _years_ how to work with a yokel like you. Aly's shy and works hard, done a great job on my land. If you want to talk to her, quit the foolin' around and just _shut up and talk._ " He paused, letting the illogical statement set confusion in the rancher's mind, and then leaned in closer. The Lee-Enfield bumped into his hand, held back by a strap. "And if I hear you givin' her trouble? We. Will. Have. _Words._ "

Spinning away, Leif couldn't stop the wide grin from spreading across his face. Fortunately only Roanette could see it, and she hurried to accompany him as he stamped out the door. She stayed at his side until the front door closed before breaking into giggles.

"What?" he stepped a little further away from the centauride. She was walking too close.

Roanette covered her mouth with a hand. "I haven't seen Aly that flustered, ever! She needed that, ah, Milord."

Poker face firm once more, Leif raised a questioning eyebrow. "Earl's … flighty. Aly should be able to ride herd on him."

A loud snort came from the area just behind the corner of the barn. Wesson came into view. "That's one way to put it. You two ready?"

"Almost," Roanette brought the rifle she'd been carrying around to her front, cradling it against her body with one arm. Unlike Leif's older weapon, this one boasted a matte black finish, absorbing the light hitting its surface. Metal gave off a dull sheen where polymer gave way to its presence. Extended magazines protruded from before the trigger guard, giving the feeling of aggressive intent. "Milord, I would appreciate it if you would permit Miss Aredhel to accompany you upon this venture. I am not … optimal for what you are doing."

"What he's doing?" Wesson gave him a sharp look. "Leif's staying out of sight, that's what he's doing."

Leif took the implication, and dismissed it with a shake of his head. "Like I said, spottin' for Gramps. This is my land. Contract states it's my decisions. Something goes wrong, I make the call."

"He's right," Roanette rushed to cut off the Asian federal agent's response. "We have his permission, but if there are hostages, we are by law required to verify actions with Lord Larsen."

The agent stiffened. "Generals don't need to be on the front lines. I'm sorry Mister Larsen, but I have to put my foot down on this. You stay out of the line of fire, or I'll detail a squad to ensure your safety for the entirety of the situation."

Leif froze. This was _his_ land, _his_ problems.

"If … I may suggest a compromise?" A new voice entered the conversation. Like its owner, it was graceful, a lilting tone suggesting an elegant manner, educated by deep contemplation. Aredhel came into view, a vicious longbow perched on one shoulder, at odds with her demeanor. "May I proceed, milord?"

"I'm no one's lord," Leif growled. "What do you mean?"

The elf turned to face him fully. "Milord, the endeavors of at least three peoples rests on your well-being. It is not just those that will reside here, but the hopes of liminals far beyond this place. The centaurs have proclaimed a sanctuary, where those who are injured by mankind or liminals may recuperate away from both. Centaurides fleeing unwanted advances may find safe haven here, while others will learn from you how to act in this nation. You are our protector, the shield between what laws we have, and the laws of this country. Because of _you_ , there is safe harbor, even when the most heated emotional tempers may rage, there will be a chance for peace."

She turned to face the federal agent. "Agent, your zeal is commendable as well. But you forget this man has been born and raised on this land. He has dedicated himself to its defense – until he learned of your intentions less than two months ago, he was the _only_ defender. Such dedication is not eradicated by heavy weapons and soft words."

The two men exchanged a look, relaxing a small amount. Wesson sighed. "What do you suggest?"

Flipping her braided hair back over a shoulder, Aredhel smiled. "The solution is simplicity itself. Agent, you will take point with your teams, and ensure the situation is resolved before any harm may come to Lord Larsen. In the meantime, milord will take every precaution to approach the situation from a distance; his weapon is adapted for long-range after all. Furthermore, my own people are ready to engage as well, reducing the potential for disaster affecting your own squads."

"If I may," Roanette flanked the shorter woman, but kept a respectful distance. "I am willing to observe from closer range, if it will please you milord."

"No! Absolutely not!" Wesson exploded. He calmed instantly, running a hand through combed hair. "There's less than a month until the Exchange Act is official, no liminals are to be seen until _after_ it is signed."

Leif found himself liking the centauride's suggestion – if not the way she'd suggested it. Another facet had jumped out at him though. "Countries are signing this thing, without the knowledge of their populations?"

A hearty sigh billowed from the shorter man's toes. "Yeah. That … is going to be a problem. Above my pay grade. Up until now it's been a 'Top Secret'; reworked memories, alibis, bribes … the whole nine yards. But," a glare directed itself at the small group. "I will _not_ permit my operation to be the leak beforehand."

Leif gave a sigh of his own, but of exasperation. "So put 'em in a month o' solitary. Can't blab when they got four walls for company. We're wasting time."

"Agreed." Roanette hefted the assault rifle, jacket parting slightly to reveal extra ammunition packed around her waist. "With your permission?"

He waved a hand, "Fine."

Sounds of hardware rattling accompanied the noise of heavy hoof beats, approaching with speed. To Leif's surprise, Sophette came into view. Her absence earlier was explained by the presence of many straps standing out on her pale body, a complex web winding along her entire form. What that network seemed built _for_ however, was far more impressive.

Whatever it was, Leif hadn't seen one like it before. A high-capacity pack sat high on her withers, leading his eyes running to an oversized gun barrel she carried in both hands. Metallic belts holding hundreds of what looked to be 7.62 mm bullets snaked from the thing's side, wrapping back to the pack, passing through the hands of a small dryad, easily missed by one distracted by the literal heavy metal.

Logic clicked through Leif's brain, attempting to make sense of the youngest centauride. It was obviously a gun, but the sort of weapon found on what he supposed to be vehicles, or entrenched emplacements. Her pale features looked enthused if he was any judge, and if her motions were slowed by the construct's weight, it didn't show. Afternoon sunshine made the silvery-blonde highlights in her hair glisten, counterpoint to the weapon's dark appearance.

"I'm here!" she chirped. Both hands maneuvered the monstrosity so that it pointed skywards. "Where are we going?"

Making up for Leif's silence, Wesson stalked forwards, oriental eyes nearly invisible they were clenched so tight. "What. Is. _That?_ "

As yet another argument started, Leif shook his head, and walked away. He glanced back at the house, and pursed his lips in a shrill whistle, piercing high into the air. Barking responded immediately, audible seconds before three Border collies charged around the corner.

Leif angled himself, taking the no-nonsense stance that accelerated the loyal canines into a dead run. They came to a halt inches from his feet, sitting at attention.

"Dunyazade," he gestured at the smallest of the three. "Guard Home. _Guard_."

The dog spun in place, almost a dervish and flew back towards the house, this time low and silent.

"Scheherazade," the second dog pricked her ears forwards. "Eugene. Heel."

Both dogs leapt to his side, staying just far enough back to give him room to walk. It was the most basic command trainers taught first, compelling the animal to override instinct and rush ahead. It took time and personality, but took advantage to the instinctive traits that made canines excel at cooperative hunting.

Footsteps alerted him to the elf coming to his side. "Lady Roanette spoke with you?"

"Aye," he started a light jog, dogs running as silent as shadows apart from the metallic clinking of their collars. "We talked."

"Excellent," an enthusiastic quality entered her voice. "I am available for the evaluation period at your discretion, milord. But it must wait until after this event has passed."

"Sure," he paid no attention to her words, looking for the deer hide set up some years before. Then his subconscious delivered a sharp blow to the more active portion of thought. "Wait. What?"

"After these thieves have been captured and brought to justice," the blonde elf brushed a strand that had escaped the braids behind one long ear. "You allowed the centaurs an opportunity to prove their intentions, spending several days alone with Lady Roanette. While she has kept the events under strictest confidence, I am certain my own skills will prove no less efficacious."

"I … wha … but …." Leif closed his eyes, growling to himself. "We'll see. Gotta get goin' before we blow all the plannin' to kingdom come."

The elf followed, a sly smile on her face. Leif did his best to ignore it. Life was complicated enough without bringing in conniving elves coordinating with well-intentioned centaurs and hopeless cats. His life's increased difficulty made him shudder, despite everything he could do to prevent it.

The sound of arguments receded as he moved away, taking long, purposeful strides. His two Border collies kept close, as if sensing his intent desire. Neither strayed more than a foot from Leif's side, keen eyes watching every moving shadow, ears shifting towards sounds emanating from their surroundings. He loved watching them move, obeying out of desire to please, treating him as one of their pack. Their absolute trust was humbling, a facet of his existence Leif tried to repay whenever he could.

His boots made quiet thumps against the prairie hardpan, rapid steps moving swiftly into the former neighbor's property. Less than fifteen minutes of walking reached the darkening tree belt, planted to guard crops from the desiccating influence of wind; out in the pastures, the same plantings defended herds from bone-chilling winds howling across the Plains. Here, they protected the house lot from the same, unyielding fury.

Soon he caught sight of the deer hide, technically a tree stand, but flanked with wooden slats and an awkward ladder. The dimming light made it hard to see the weathered boards, leaving the shadowed slit in even deeper darkness. Leif glanced back, checking to see the elf hanging back a dozen feet or so, and more figures even further back. Resisting the urge to sigh yet again, he reached the ladder and tapped the side.

"Wha'?" an old voice murmured.

"It's me." Leif paused to listen; no sound of vehicles could be heard, other than a tractor finishing up a harvest out to the east. One of the International Harvester's, he believed. "Alright?"

A long pause met his question. One of the seats had a loose screw, making a tiny squeaking sound whenever it shifted. Finally a gruff voice responded. "Will be."

' _Fair enough_.' Leif rapped his knuckles against the ladder twice, and turned away.

He looked down. "Eugene. Scheherazade. Stay."

Two pairs of soulful eyes looked up at him, pleading. It took a moment but he melted at the sight. Sighing, he crouched, ruffling their fur just the way they liked it, scratching behind their ears. "Gotta stay. Gramps is here. Keep him safe, yeah? Stay. Guard Gramps, kay? _Guard_."

Scheherazade slunk to one side, falling over in a slump, ears pointed. Eugene stayed, looking at Leif as if begging him to change his mind. At last the Border collie exhaled a disappointed huff, and joined his mate. Both kept their eyes on Leif, but kept their ears pointed in every other direction.

"Good boy, good girl," Leif muttered. A faint motion in the tail region of both dogs stilled as he walked away.

Aredhel came closer as they paced. "The old man is a formidable warrior. What is his name?"

"Gramps?" Leif had to think. Everyone in the area called him by the nickname, a practice the old man had adopted in good humor. "He's a Knudtsen. The last one, I think."

He'd walked on a few steps before realizing the elf had stopped. Pausing himself, he turned to look back. "Alright?"

"Did you say, _Knudtsen_? Would he be known as … _Gunnery Chief Knudtsen_? Of the United States Marines, Maquis trainer in France?" She spoke as if bringing up some terrifying phrase that summoned demons, ready to consume souls and bones alike. For the first time her pale face drew a sense of concern.

"Aye, how'd you know?" Leif unshipped his rifle, checking the stock, making sure the safety was set. This was no time for distractions. "Nevermind. Talk later."

He stalked forward, listening. Behind the elf muttered about phantoms rising from the past, but he ignored it. Ahead lay the Zakapenko home, low and long against the horizon. It could've been mistaken for a hill in the dimming light, save for the straight edges and security light in the inner portions. In time that too would switch off, leaving the Zakapenko property in darkness. A windmill by the cattle yard made its rhythmic grind, filling the water tank in periodic interludes. Familiar sounds to a rancher in the Great Plains.

Finding his place, Leif settled on a rock, covered by a screen of bushes from the east and south. To the west was the windbreak, stretching northward along the property line, providing cover from that direction.

Leif reached into a pocket, and pulled out a small bag of jerky, withdrawing a piece to masticate while waiting. He held the bag out to the elf, shaking it once.

"Um, no thank you," she gave a half-hearted smile. "But it is kind of you to offer."

He shrugged, dropping the sack within reach, should she change her mind. Then he turned his attention to the yard, its large gravel circle filling the space between house and repair shed, culminating in a driveway leading out to the road.

Silence in the countryside fell. The night was warm, awakening the few crickets that yet lived. Their quiet buzzing accentuated the silence, like static coming from the introductory emanations of faint stars. Tractors in distant fields rumbled to a halt, most of the fields were sufficiently harvested to give their drivers an excuse to rest. Smoke drifted above a few places, where garbage fires burned. Everything that could be saved was saved, but there was inevitable trash that could not eke out another incarnation.

Hickory smoke drifted past too, intangible and almost indecipherable amongst all the smells. Rich, dry earth smells filled the air alongside the musty odor of dead leaves from nearby trees. Contrasting to those deciduous offerings was the drier, pungent smell of grass drying out on the ground. Even the sweet scent of silage made an appearance when the wind came in from the west, which it did often.

Leif hunched, rifle leaning on the ground, waiting. It was no different than staking out a deer one had watched all summer. Getting to know a creature's habits was no different from their being inside the fence or out. The only change in his mind was the lack of control; cattle were hauled to the butcher in a truck. Deer had to be tracked down and harvested, removing the few so that their herd would thrive.

A car's engine whined past, raising his back a moment before humming past. Leif relaxed, leaning back against the stone. It was beginning to feel too cold, but the feeling would pass. Or he'd put the tarp down as insulator. Decisions could be made later. For now, it was pleasant to sit and watch the stars come out.

More rustling sounds came from the surrounding area – noises he pointedly ignored, yet catalogued in his mental map. Even insects could make audible sounds under their miniscule weight, and the security team he was saddled with weighed much more than an insect.

"Sir?" the elf said quietly.

"Mm?" Leif tilted his head a fraction, keeping his eyes on the driveway.

Aredhel eased the string back on her bow, letting it release with a small _twang._ "Has Mister Knudtsen ever talked about … the war?"

"We've talked." Leif pondered the situation. Here he was on a stakeout, with the irritating cat-people on all sides, an overprotective centauride riding herd on the rest, and an elf at his side prying questions about a neighbor. Helping out Roanette's sister with Earl was one thing, they were about the same age. But an elf appearing to be in her early twenties and a neighbor he knew to be in his nineties? There was something odd about that.

"Did he mention anyone … special?" Her voice was softer than the breeze on grass, making Leif strain to hear it. "A girl maybe?"

"Nope." Leif shut her down. Then innate honesty dragged another answer, kicking and screaming. "Well … not really. Sortof."

Her long ears lifted.

"Ach." Leif sighed. "Not my place … but … long story short, he has a picture. In his pocket watch. Never shows it to anybody. Always solemn when he looks at it. Figure old memories, best left buried."

"Maybe," the blonde elf whispered. Her posture shifted, growing straight as her keen eyes flickered across the field. "Maybe not."

The pair waited in silence, watching. For a change, it seemed the moment would remain peaceful with a liminal so close. He hoped it wouldn't change too soon. Life was complicated enough.


	7. Hard Contact

Feet stepped close, bringing Leif to full wakefulness. While not _asleep_ per se, his watchful doze was of uncomfortable proximity to it. He listened, and could tell why the protective ring drew closer; the sound of a large vehicle was audible, and growing closer.

The sky was past twilight, but a touch shy of true night. His eyes were fully adjusted to the dark, which was why he shut them, turning away from the glare of headlights that swung into the driveway.

Leif eased to one knee, his Lee-Enfield aimed downward, but poised. In a heartbeat it could be raised to his shoulder, less than that for the safety to be removed. After a moment’s thought, he switched the safety off. It was better to avoid making even small noises if possible, even if the large vehicle was grumbling enough to hide the presence of an entire mechanized infantry division.

The sound of tensing cables creaked behind him. He held up a hand in the universal _wait_ gesture.

Aredhel lowered her bow, carbon fiber arrow easing forwards. One long ear flicked in his direction, then back to the truck.

Lowering himself to the ground, Leif sought the deepest cover, near the thick grass behind the bush screen. Any further forwards and he’d be in the clear section under the bushes themselves where the taller grass couldn’t disguise his wiry build. But he could still see, if he was clever.

Functional brakes groaned to a stop, letting an oversized pickup shudder to a halt. Chains swung under the hitch in sullen arcs, linking an equally oversized cattle trailer that bounced to a halt. For a cattle trailer, it seemed lightly burdened to Leif’s eye. Average shipments when maximizing carry count needed extra space to slow, and swung wide in any turn. A single cow could weigh near a thousand pounds, depending on the breed, making a full load weigh upwards of twenty-five tons.

If Leif’s estimate was right, this trailer barely held a quarter capacity.

Lights switched off, leaving the yard in darkness. Over the throbbing rumble of the pickup’s diesel engine, more crunching gravel could be heard, without the visual accompaniment.

Leif’s hands tensed as he saw the same old sedan show up, followed by the quieter purr of the Chevy Avalanche. The sedan’s muffler still needed work, and the Avalanche looked just as useless as before. Each pulled forwards, the Avalanche without lights, letting the sedan illuminate the path for the both of them, forming a triangle with the truck.

The Avalanche’s door clicked open, well-maintained hinges gliding apart. From the low angle, worn shoes and jeans could be seen, stepping free.

“Here we are!” the upbeat female voice greeted. “Looks like we’re ready.”

A raspy voice responded. “Yeah. Let’s make this quick. I have a few boys in the back, they’ll keep them from running.”

“Puh- _lease_ ,” Brunhilda turned the word into two syllables, attempting to stretch it into three. “They’ve got triple-locks on ‘em, chain-gang style. No way they’ll get out of that, even if they’re unnatural. I mean, how freaky can they get?”

A hoarse voice bellowed from beyond sight, Wesson’s voice. But it wasn’t the usual, fussy, city slicker quality he’d heard around the ranch, but a combat-ready shout.

_“Eff-Bee-Eye! Put your hands in the air!”_

Crunching boots hit the ground running. “Move! Forget the cargo. _Move_!”

Car doors slammed, the truck rumbling to life as the Chevy spun backwards. Leif heard the brief buzz of electric windows before a canister hit the ground, emitting smoke. Tires grated on loose gravel, accelerating towards the driveway; Leif knew there were low bushes on either side of the drive, but nothing strong enough to withstand multiple tons of metal. That was the prelude to something he’d never expected to hear in his lifetime, in Wesson’s voice no less.

“ _Light ‘em up_!”

The boom of a sniper’s greeting shook the air, the .50 Sharps firing from cover. Leif couldn’t see the target, but the lead Avalanche’s engine gave a shuddering lurch, before flames erupted beneath the hood. Sidearm fire, semi-automatics from the sound, chattered from the vehicle’s windows, painting bright flares in the dark.

Aredhel rose to her feet, drawing the compound bow’s full length in a single, smooth pull. For a moment her eyes glinted in the starlight, narrowing downrange. Then the bow made a quiet _chonk_ sound, wafting a tuft of hair past her cheek, and eliciting a pained cry from the night.

In the thickening smoke, Leif couldn’t be certain of a target. He elected to remain low, scrambling backwards towards the cover of trees. Aredhel kept pace with him, crouching almost double. Once she seized Leif’s shoulder, pushing him around a tree, but otherwise leaving him alone. The neko squad surrounding the pair were fading into sight as well, half moving forwards while the other half ghosted ahead, searching the forward path.

A loud chatter buzzed from the direction of the trailer. Aredhel lunged at Leif, tackling him to the ground, shouting. “He’s good, I got him!”

One of the armored figures appeared out of the darkness, seizing Leif’s foot, and pulled. Between the two, he was rapidly moved deeper into the underbrush, out of sight in seconds. After a tree of medium size was reached, the two let go with surprising gentleness. While irritated, Leif appreciated the gesture.

“Landlord is out of the box, say again: Landlord is out of the box.” One of the other shadowy figures had a hand up to its head, acting as if listening. It paused a heartbeat. “Roger, Princess. Big Guns fire at will.”

_‘Wait. Big guns?’_ Leif’s mental imagery cut back to a certain centauride, and the hardware she’d wielded. Had that counted? Anything larger would have to count as artillery, and _nothing_ would keep the locals out if they believed military-grade weaponry was going off.

A faint tremor shook the ground under his back. _‘Criminently.’_

Shouting, faint at first but growing louder, met his ears. It sounded like war cries, something he’d only heard one grandparent perform, and of course emulated by his siblings in the further reaches. ‘Screeching like Comanches’ it was considered. Where the term came from, as that tribe had stayed much further south than Montana, he had no clue. But the practice gave him some experience in listening.

“What the …?” he rose, checking the rifle. The safety was back on, reflex action when he’d hit the dirt. A good habit, that. Leif focused on the hills west, towards the town the centaurs had been building. “Hear that?”

The drumming sound grew louder, hoof beats like rolling thunder. The cries grew louder in his ears, punctuated by brief bursts of automatic fire. Emotion was possible to determine from the more audible cries now, ebullient shouts and energetic whooping that resembled the hollerings Leif sometimes heard in town outside the collegiate-frequented bars. It wasn’t quite inebriated but it was of a certainty less than sober; spirited behavior more akin to undisciplined chaos than ….

Leif remembered something Roanette had mentioned in passing. About her species other gender, and how her father defied the average.

“Great Galloping – ….” He didn’t finish his sentence.

A tidal wave of heaving flanks and enough Kevlar to arm a battalion came into view. Centaurs crested a small hill, firing what looked like long guns skywards, tongues of flame accompanying the sharp cracking noises. Some wore grease paint, an odd contrast of green and gray against the more natural-looking hued hair. Leif could see at least two centaurs that were towing something massive, jerking it along at the tail-end of the charge, wheels bouncing at every rut.

“Huh. Cavalry charge.” Leif lowered his rifle, still watching. “Don’t see one of those every day.”

“Look who is leading them,” Aredhel murmured at his side.

Leif turned. In the front of the charge was a familiar figure, black hair pulled back in a professional-looking tie. At her flank was another familiar centauride, wielding the mini-gun-thing, which was impressive in-and-of-itself. But at the front, holding a banner so long its pointed end flapped well behind his tail, galloped the oldest Yidderman. In the gloom details were obscure, but his bared arms shone white in the sporadic headlights, and his bellowing cries could be made out over the entire herd.

“There they are lads!” the stentorian bellow overrode the engine noise at last. “They’re running! No – by the ranks! By the _bloody_ ranks you idiots!”

As one, the mass of horsemen accelerated, pushing the three leaders at a faster pace, beyond the reckless acceleration they’d already taken. Outer edges were already passing Yidderman, camouflage jostling upwards at every jolting stride. Even standard weapons discharging failed to catch their attention, what with all the gunplay they were doing already.

“There they go,” Aredhel noted, watching the chaotic horde stream across the lawn. She edged a little closer to Leif, watching as their leader was carried along with them, bellowing orders and epithets in equal volume. “We better stay out of sight. Male centaurs can be … rude, if they see unattached women. Very rude.”

Leif tapped his Lee-Enfield, and shrugged. “Once, maybe.”

She flashed him a grateful smile. “Thank you, milord.”

“Not you too,” he groaned. “Ro’s enough already. Too much in fact.”

She arched a shapely eyebrow at him. “You know we will obey direct orders, _milord_. Will you order us to be silent? In a _lordly_ fashion, perhaps?”

Leif stared at her for a moment, then dropped his gaze, shaking his head. “Crazy. You are all crazy.”

He didn’t see the satisfied smile appear on the elf’s face for a moment. It stayed for a heartbeat. “What next, milord?”

A deep sigh answered her. She might have grinned; he couldn’t tell. “Stay out o’ the way, and get ready to talk, I guess.”

“Flank them – I said – just circle around the far side!” the annoyed voice bellowed again. “By Dobbin just stop there! Halt! _Company halt_!”

The yelling redoubled, some high-pitched tenors counterpointing a baritone cacophony. Thumping metal joined the chorus, squeaking of a trailer hitch and shock absorbers, growing louder until a groaning crash filled the air.

Leif pushed through the last of the shrubbery, rifle pointed downward, safety a hair’s breadth from making the lethal metal length live once more. He gazed at the end of the driveway, slowly shaking his head.

“What is – druids riding a bicycle!” Aredhel came to a stop just behind his left.

Less than a quarter mile away, the trailer had been completely overturned. Red taillights shone into the darkness, illuminating the mass of bodies surrounding it, and the stranger’s vehicles. The Avalanche was nose-down in the five-foot ditch, a massive centaur that looked part Percheron doing an apparent jig on its rear hatch. The pickup attached to the trailer was moving, but over a foot off the ground as dozens of muscled arms heaved it up and away.

More gunfire went off, causing Leif to duck down – only to realize the centaurs were celebrating. A small group had overturned the Olsen’s sedan, plucking out its single, screaming, female occupant.

Leif frowned. Her cries weren’t the terrified screams of a woman confronted by imaginary monsters. It sounded closer to when someone was frustrated, and caught in a bad place.

“ _Hold!”_ Yidderman’s form cantered into sight, flag drooping now that his speed was less. The centaurs ignored him, breaking the metal parts from the trailer, laughing as they did so. The group holding Brunhilda started to move away, tugging off her jacket.

The chief centaur stabbed the flag’s pole into the earth. _“ **Or I’ll cancel beer night!** ”_

Dead silence rang just as loud as the hubbub their chaos had caused. Even from a distance their hurt, betrayed looks could be seen. Leif brought up a mental comparison; on a scale between a wet kitten and a dejected calf, the entire group placed far beyond either. It was like their mental maturity stood on a very low mesa, stuck on a plateau of immediate gratification, and Yidderman had called them out. It made him shake his head, witnessing grown men shuffling like boys caught with a hand in the cookie jar – unbelievable.

“They’re mostly like that,” the elf commented, as if reading his mind. “The males, I mean. At least, the combat-oriented males. The rest remain behind, a custom I believe started after the Roman Empire fell, and the regulations with it.”

Leif closed his mouth, clenching it when the dispirited centaurs righted the trailer in a casual display of strength. Their oversized forms made the task look easy, a few getting behind the metal roof and leaning their weight into it while others pulled down on the nearer edge. Metal groaned, rolling into place, settling the entire trailer down on its wheels.

Quick, firm footsteps came into hearing. Leif started turning, but Aredhel already had her bow up, an arrow nocked. A few feet back and over towards the trees, Agent Wesson held up his hands. “I come in peace?”

“Oh,” the elf lowered the bow, easing the wire back. “My apologies, sir.”

“Think nothing of it,” he rubbed his hands together. “I am glad to see you getting along so well with Mister Larsen. A splendid operation don’t you think? Small fish of course, but I am certain the source will be unveiled in time.”

Leif plucked a grass stem from its knobby sheathe and chewed on it. The refreshing taste of prairie greenery – even if it was mostly dry – helped calm his nerves. He made a pointed look at the mobile artillery dragging around the centaur group, and the youngest Yidderman’s massive weapon. “Lotta guns.”

“Yes, well,” Wesson looked embarrassed. “It was pointed out to me that the armaments present are, technically, on embassy soil. How they _reached_ that soil is another matter altogether, and one I’ll be directing resources to investigate as soon as I collect my satellite phone from my counterpart. At the moment however, I cannot deny their effectiveness.”

An outcry came up from the four-legged group surrounding the trailer still. It rose and fell, then rose again. Leif turned again, scanning the area, but could see nothing in the near darkness.

“One moment,” Wesson stepped onto the drive, his leather-soled shoes grinding on dust and gravel. “I shall return.”

A moment later, after the government man had moved out of hearing, Aredhel gave a gasp of surprise. “Sire, did you say what these men were smuggling?”

Leif shrugged. “Nope. Rustlers do a lot out here, sheep. Cattle. Illegal immigrants. Let the cops deal with ‘em.”

An older voice, worn with years and sounding exasperated. Gramps, moving as silent as only a trained veteran born in hunting country, could achieve. “The idiots were smuggling lamia. _Idiots._ As if they wanted to draw any more attention to this? It’s almost winter for cryin’ out loud. What were they going to store them in, a chicken coop?”

More victory cries rose, the centaurs whooping over the tumult like the overpowering aura of the rising sun. As yet more gunfire went off, Leif felt a sudden impact ram into his upper thigh, spinning him around like a top. He hit the ground, stunned. Pain blossomed from his leg, throbbing in greater bursts of pain at each beat, worse than a mule’s kick.

He knew all about _that._ There were no mules on his ranch now for good reason.

“Milord!” the elf dropped beside him, hands making frantic motions just above his body, seeming hesitant to touch. “ _Sire!”_

Out of the shadows three armored individuals converged on their position. One skidded to a kneeling halt at Leif’s side, faceplate flipping open. Feline features peered down at him, slit pupils dilated wide. It turned aside, pointing at one of the other shadowy figures. “Landlord is down, repeat: Landlord is _down_!”

Leif gritted his teeth. Physical pain was fine. Getting crowded by strangers? Not fine at all. But he wasn’t an idiot – or he tried to avoid being one as much as possible. Another wave of pain launched through his left leg like an echo. “Missed the artery. Flesh wound.”

“If you don’t mind,” the whiskered face retorted, “I’ll be the judge of that. Allen Kissasen, Team Medic. Pleasure.”

“If you say so,” Leif remained stoic as a massive knife appeared in the cat-person’s hand, twirling into sight. “What are – oh.”

The knife ripped through the denim jeans, slicing fabric in a clean cut. The cat-person’s gloves slid off, allowing his near-human hands to probe around the injured flash. Leif reacted, clenching his fist, nails digging into the palm. Against his will, a faint gurgling escaped his throat, hissing at the stabbing pressure.

“You’re hurting him!” Aredhel grabbed at Kissasen’s hand, only for the felinoid to evade her swift reach.

“He’s been shot,” his dry tone didn’t waver. “A painful experience even if I didn’t check for a through-and-through. Should you not be contacting his associates?”

Leif grimaced.

“I am to stay at his side no matter what. Such was my agreement.” Aredhel clutched Leif’s shoulder. “I’m not leaving.”

“Then keep calm and help me get him ready for moving. His home is less than two miles away, but I can have an ambulance here in two minutes.”

“No – need.” The rancher hissed through clenched teeth. “Won’t – be necessary.”

Kissasen’s voice turned soothing. “I understand your feeling my lord, but you must have immediate attention. These bandages will not hold long, and I prefer a stable environment for better treatment.”

“Dumb. Cat.” Leif tried to sit up, grunted at the pain, and fell back, caught by Aredhel. He pointed at the low-slung ranch house less than three hundred yards away. “Zakapenko’s. Keys – under – mat. Full kit.”

The cat man reared back. “Oh. _Oh._ Good. We’ll still need to move …” he glanced around, then his shoulders slumped. “Contact the Chiron. We shall need his aid.”

“Call Roanette,” Aredhel suggested. “Caleb can keep the peace. And see if you can get … _Gramps_ involved. He is able to control the herd if need be.”

From her lap – and wondering how he’d reached that position – Leif hissed a pained laugh. “He’s tough. Old.”

“About middle-aged, by my guess,” Aredhel corrected. “He’s younger than great grandpa, but he still has color in his hair, if you know where to look.”

Leif gave her a strange look, to which she shook her head, sending loosened blonde strands shaking. “Later.”

Thundering hoofbeats announced the arrival of an agitated centauride. “Milord? You are injured? Fie! A curse on my brethren for their carelessness! Is it bad, sir neko?”

“Ain’t heard of anyone shot _good_ ,” Leif ground out. “Just a flesh wound. Someone just get me to the house, I’ll take it from there.”

“Nay,” Roanette sidled around, presenting her flank to the group. “Let him ride upon me. I shall render such aid as I can, yon dwelling is not sized for those such as I. From there you must care for his needs.”

The elf looked up. “Not that I don’t appreciate this, but you are acting more formal all of a sudden ….”

“Stress.” Kissensan muttered, adding another cloth to the wad surrounding Leif’s thigh. Gauze wrapped tight upon its diameter, firm but not cutting off circulation. “Centaurs fall back on formal language under stress. Medieval upbringing and all the joys that go with it. Can you get his head, elf?”

With Aredhel lifting Leif’s head and torso, the other three neko were able to lift his lower half into an awkward side-saddle position. Leif had to lean against Roanette’s upright back, clutching at her shoulder to keep from sliding off. Two of the cat people held his leg in place, while Aredhel helped steady him from the other side. Between the five helpers, quick progress was made, transporting the injured man across the hardpan drive’s gravel surface.

“Sorry Ro’, Leif muttered. He tried easing back on his grip on her shoulder, felt himself slip, and redoubled its strength. “I can hop. Didn’t want to do this to you.”

The centauride refused to turn her head enough to face him, but her upright ears told him enough. When a horse held itself in such a way, it was nervous. Interested in _something_ , but nervous. “N-n-nonsense milord. You are no burden.”

He would’ve sighed if the pain were any less. The girl had it bad.

* * *

Wesson – contrary to Leif’s expectation – did _not_ burst into the Zakapenko dwelling. Instead he failed to appear for hours, during which Leif had to put up with a professional suturing and receive multiple admonishments to avoid extraneous movement. Advice from a professional was one thing, but to receive the same repeated instructions from a cat-folk, an elf, and a centaur, the concept became less than novel. After the first two hours, Leif was _finally_ able to convince his volunteer caretakers to allow him access to the phone – which was outright refused until a long enough cord was located to bring the wall-mounted unit to _him_ – where he was then able to call his own home, relaying the situation.

_“Let me get this straight,”_ Earl responded after his lengthy explanation. _“You went out there armed for bear, three squads of the cat-ladies to watch your back, Gramps with his cannon, and a troupe of attack cavalry ponies – sorry Aly – and they winged you with a celebratory shot?”_

Leif said nothing, giving the darkened window a sour look.

_“On the other hand, is it a wicked looking scar? The ladies love that, or so I’m told. No I haven’t been seeing anyone else Aly. Why do – nevermind I’m on the phone with Leif. Sorry, Aly’s a bit anxious. Are you going to be all right?”_

“Just peachy.” Leif ignored the hovering figures in the background. “Back to work in no time.”

_“Yeah, that sounds like you,”_ Earl’s voice overpowered the negative susurrations erupting around Leif’s seat. _“I’ll give the guys a call, tell them to stand down before they get trigger-happy; sounded like the Little Bighorn was on again. Anything I can do for you while I’m here?”_

Leif shrugged, then remembered it couldn’t be seen on the line. “No. Just leave the door unlocked. I’ll feed the horses in the morning, clean the stalls.”

All three Border collies raised their heads, turning towards the door. Leif interpreted the move and made a conclusion. “Gotta go, someone’s coming.”

_“Right then. See you later Leif.”_

Aredhel accepted the handset, carrying it back to the portion resting on the wall, a light frown on her face. She hesitated, one hand rising to tuck a stray hair back. “Milord, are you certain of your plans for tomorrow?”

“Aye,” Leif had to concentrate. The morphine injection had him feeling a little … _woozy_ …? Was that the correct term? It was interesting, the floating sensation that diffused the room into a happy-ish glow. Was it causing the itching sensation – no. He had to stay on task. Reality did not change even if sensations didn’t. “Work needs to be done.”

“Milord,” Roanette interjected from her position on the opposite side, scowling. The ceiling was brushing her ear-tips it was so low on her “You cannot expect to maintain the same level of fitness during impairment. I am fully capable of performing mundane tasks for you.”

“As am I,” Aredhel added smoothly, returning to stand by the centauride. “I am also well-versed in medical care; changing dressings, basic surgery, physical therapy –“

A stomping hind-hoof boomed on the floor. “Physical therapy is _my_ specialty, thank you. Milord may ride me to his destinations, and incorporate vigorous exercise at his discretion.”

Leif’s eyes followed the exchange like a poorly refereed ping-pong match. There was something going on, a dispute over territory, if he was reading the situation aright. But they were young – they’d get over their mutual crush in a matter of weeks, or a month at the outset. Or so he hoped. Sometimes he just felt old.

“Of course,” the elf delivered a polite smile. “Your expertise in the outdoors is undisputed. After all, a centaur’s inherent mass is incapable of performing the more delicate tasks remanded to domestic locales.”

Roanette’s ears went back – and would have probably delivered an equally disguised retort, except for the front door opening.

Leif glanced at the dark opening, then down at his dogs. All three were tense, hackles going up along the entire length of their necks. Their heads lowered, a faint growl emanating from Eugene as a faint grinding noise made its way towards the doorframe. Muscles bunched as Wesson stepped inside. He took off his hat, wiping leather shoes on the door mat, and continued into the room, leaving the door open.

“Mister Larsen, I pray you are in good health?”

He gave a shrug in response, still watching his dogs. “I’ll live.”

“Good to hear,” the Asian didn’t seem to hear his answer. “There is … well … a bit of a problem. You see the, ah, _cargo_ being carried by the poachers was not what we’d anticipated. In fact, I can say there was no way to predict what we did find – have to speak with Intelligence division about this. If I may?”

_‘Great.’_ Leif took another look at his dogs, who had not looked away from the doorway, ignoring the government man in their intensity. _‘Not going to like this, am I?’_

“Excellent, thank you.” Wesson concluded. He turned back towards the doorway. “Ladies? You may come in now.”

Leif heard more grinding, scraping sounds, and then nearly had a heart attack as what appeared to be the largest snake in Montana – if not the world – slithered over the doorsill. Red and green scales covered her back, winding their way up to cream-colored underbelly, which itself terminated unto a ragged skirt. The skirt ended a good handspan below the tatty halter-top shirt, which appeared to be on the verge of shredding under the stress it was undergoing.

Moving upwards, smaller scales made an appearance around the upper neck, making a small diamond pattern on the sides of the snake-folk’s face. Cone-like ears angled outwards through a mass of unkempt brownish hair, framing a pair of predator’s eyes that stared out at him with an undisguised curiosity.

Leif reacted, basic instinct hurtling him over the back of the sofa. On the way over he managed to snag the Colt 1911 lying on the end table, dropping to the bare floorboards. Such an impact knocked the wind out of him, sending a painful jolt through the recent injury on his thigh. Using his good leg, Leif shoved himself further back behind a dividing wall, placing two large objects between himself and the oversized predator.

On the other side he could hear the dogs come to full attention, assessing a major danger, worthy of baring teeth and emanating the sort of rumbling growls that deterred wolves and bear alike. It sent quiet screams in reaction, from the massive snakes direction.

“Larsen!”

Leif checked the chamber, shoving the slide back into place while popping off the safety. The barking increased, along with the thunder of hooves and faint footsteps. The light floaty sensation was wreaking havoc with his sense of balance, but Leif managed to get against the wall, leveraging himself to a sitting position. Then he stopped, trying to think. His face fell as realization made its weighty arrival.

“Call off the dogs Larsen! They’re harmless!”

Aredhel appeared from nowhere, just as Roanette thundered down the narrow hall at his back. He held up a hand at both of them, stopping their approach. He focused, pursing his lips. A hoarse sputtering came out.

Shaking his head, Leif stuck a pair of fingers in his mouth, trying again. This time a piercing call rang through the house, stilling the frenetic barking, and incurring the scrabbling sound of claws against polished concrete. In a heartbeat the three dogs were at his side, pressing themselves against him. Scheherazade in particular was shaking in fear, whimpering as she tried to wedge herself between Leif and the wall. Silence filled the room.

Calculations went through Leif’s brain. Less than what could’ve transpired, but more than his drugged reflexes appreciated.

_‘Fact: big snake came in my new house – although the paperwork hasn’t gone through yet.’_

_‘Fact: Wesson invited them.’_

_‘Fact: he talked about_ cargo _and surprises.’_

A heavy sigh shuddered through his frame. _‘Fact: you just bunged up some kinda First Contact.’_

He let out a groan. “Ro’. Help me up?”

“Sire,” the centauride reached down, hefting his wiry bulk with ease. She kept an arm around his shoulders, holding him up. “Lean on me.”

“Right,” Leif propped himself up with her support, gritting his teeth. “Red, think I tore the stitches. Would –“

“I’ll get the kit,” she walked off without waiting to hear the rest.

He shook his head. Having the same cat-person do it again would’ve rested his mind, but she had claimed competence. Best give her a shot – not as if the thing would hurt any less. “Help me to the sofa.”

Hopping on one leg, Leif managed to reach the back of the sofa, across which Wesson was standing, face buried in one hand and three snake women frozen in place. The foremost individual was coiled up around herself, a look of near-terror on her face, the other two were not much better, bunched in defensive postures emphasizing their mass.

“Sorry,” he clicked the safety back on, lowering the 1911. Roanette took it from his hand, reaching to place it on the end table, sending a wave of relaxation through the new group. “Long night.”

Wesson revealed his face once more. “Very well. May I … good heavens man, you’re bleeding!”

“I’ve been shot.” Leif deadpanned. “Newcomers, Agent?”

“You have to sit down – is the Neko delegation still here?” the other man scanned the room as if expecting a hidden figure to pop out of nowhere. Given the night, it might’ve even been a reasonable thought.

Leif raised his chin, putting the same tone in his voice that he used on recalcitrant dogs. “You have brought me _guests_ , Agent. Who. Are. They.”

Jaw agape, Wesson could only stare for a moment. But when Leif began to limp around the sofa’s perimeter, he shook out of it.

“Your pardon, um. Hang on a tick.” he made a sweeping gesture, while taking a deep breath. A tiny bit of paper appeared in his fingers, at which he glanced. “Right.” He cleared his throat, making a theatrical gesture. “These are the lost members of Clan Memnon, the Eastern Goddesses of the Orient. Their clan is famous for their masteries of the subtle arts, sought far and wide. Should you desire something so banal as an elixir of slumber or a balm for your foes, Clan Memnon is prepared to offer the finest aid in the world.”

Leif gave him a look, then transferred it to the snake-women. Their tentative smiles exposed pointed canines, and a forked tongue in one case. He shifted his focus back to Wesson.

“Who are they when they’re at home?”

A short burst of startled looks went around the group. But Wesson rallied. “In order, may I present Miss Jen’il, Miss Sarah, and Miss Rica.”

Thoughts of solitude wound a wistful sensation through Leif’s mind. He put them aside; he was hardly in any condition to retreat again. An injured leg, a centauride clutching his shoulder like he’d fall over if she let go, an elf coming his way with a pair of scissors, a medical kit and a determined expression … then there was the scared-looking snake-women, Wesson and the dogs that still were huddled behind the sofa, refusing to look at the newcomers.

“Make yourselves at home,” he gave up. “Fridge is a little light, but there’s plenty in the freezer. Feel free.”

The resulting exercise in obtaining freedom came in the form of a trio of appreciative, hysterical relatives of the python, involving what some called _‘glomping_ ,’ but others considered a predatory form of prey acquisition passed down to more sentient beings. All Leif knew was that it was dark; soft and hard things were simultaneously pushing against him at all angles, and Roanette was screaming bloody murder. By now he was accustomed to sudden loss of mobility but as of yet, he’d devised no means of achieving liberty at his own volition.

_‘That’s next on the list,’_ he promised. _‘As soon as I get free. Again.’_


	8. A New Normal?

Suffering the indignity of being waited upon hand and foot was humiliating. As soon as Roanette retreated from an effort to make him ‘more comfortable’, her younger sister would appear, bearing some snack, ‘just in case.’ Then Aredhel would show up with an intent look, requesting directions on how to create a more hospitable environment, and repair whatever damage Leif might have inflicted to the wrapping that kept him confined to the sofa.

Twenty. Four. _Hours._ It felt like a week.

If he were lucky, there would be an interruption by the now-present neko contingent, who were assisting in area security. With the male half of the centaur protections ‘off for remedial training’ according to Roanette, his ranch was swarming with furred beings that saluted a lot and had an intensive dislike for setting foot in the house without explicit invitation.

His fault, Leif supposed. But fixing that would take time. At the moment, it was one fewer group treating him as if he were dying. It was a relief in fact, although he was glad he didn’t have to tell his family about it – they’d worry, although not so much as outsiders would think. Injuries happened, and the most probable reaction they’d do is ask one of his brothers to come out to the ranch and help out a few days. Given their busy lives, it would be best to avoid that particular situation as long as possible.

“Sir?”

Roanette’s rubber-shod hooves clopped against the wooden floor, coming to a halt before his resting place, a long couch in the living room, positioned to see out the front and back windows. The woman looked solemn, hands folded before her belt. She waited for him to look up before continuing. “There is a new applicant for a house guest.”

Leif gave her a blank look. “House … guest?”

“Yes sire,” her hands worked, and stilled. “The Exchange program is designed to bring liminals in close proximity with humans, so that we may learn from each other. The Board has been evaluating potential candidates for some time, as you know.”

“Aye ….” Leif stretched out the single word, hoping it didn’t betray his inward opinion. _‘That bunch of addle-pated, pig-raising idiots.’_

She shifted again. “They would like to test out the process on your premises. That is to say, they have a candidate that could be considered somewhat problematic. Sending her here would give them the opportunity to test out the standard Exchange process, and see if there are changes to be made before the entire program goes public.”

He thought fast. “So … more guests out at … whaddya call your place? Havre?”

Roanette winced. “Nearly, sire. To be blunt, they wish to test it out on a human.”

He gave her an unimpressed look. “Me.”

Dark hair shook as she nodded. “That is correct.”

Closing his eyes, Leif gave a silent count to ten. Then repeated it backwards. The situation didn’t change, but a few extra breathing moments made a world of difference. Opening his eyes once more he met the concerned gaze of the statuesque centauride. “They want to test out a homestay program. With a rancher in the middle of nowhere.”

Her shoulders moved in a helpless shrug. “It is as you say. I have spoken with some of the members of the American Board; they consider you a highly trustworthy individual.”

“Huh.” Leif picked up his carving knife, and the sheet of newspaper. In careful, methodical motions, he ran a thumb over a spot, frowned at its consistency, and resumed whittling. This was a new block, a small piece longer than his hand by a few inches, and half as deep. Rough traces of a horse’s basic form were already in place, vague markings isolating a third of the block from the rest. There was already a small herd on the room’s shelves, posed as if running across the wood. But this one was different.

“Milord?”

He looked up from the carving. “Mm?”

“Will you accept the offer?”

Leif drew the blade in a careful stroke, eliminating a rough portion with slow, methodical movements. A few more strokes passed before he answered. “Depends.”

Roanette adjusted herself across the table, settling on a specialty-manufactured bench that had appeared one day. It was long and concave, fitting her equine abdominal region, cutouts for legs and what he guessed were buckles and straps for centauride clothing. Fashion was a closed book to him on the best of times – incorporating non-human subtleties left him hopelessly lost. After rocking a little, she placed her folded hands on the table, fixing her clear gaze on him. “What are your requirements, milord?”

A curl of wood corkscrewed away from his knife, landing on the newspaper. “First off, she can’t sleep inside the house. I’m old-fashioned, can’t really get comfortable with unmarried women sleeping in the same house as me.”

She winced. “That might be a little difficult to communicate. Part of the Exchange’s goal is to house liminals with prospective hosts, which may include attractive, single individuals like – that is to say, there may be issues in the future. The Board wants to test out all the variables possible.”

“Exchange, isn’t it?” Leif ignored her slip. “Learning about new cultures, right?”

“True,” she agreed. “It is also expected that the Host will be learning about his guest’s culture as well.”

“I can do that,” he responded. Another shaving hit the table, missing the newspaper. Calloused fingers flicked it into place. “But on my terms. What were they gonna do, drop off someone on somebody’s porch and tell them they had to take ‘em in?”

Roanette looked thoughtful. “Now that you mention it, the last report I heard from our counterparts in Japan mentioned focusing on rapid immersion techniques. Risky, my father believes. I’m not as certain.”

“Good way to get someone shot,” Leif grunted. “Around here, _especially_ out West, a man’s home is his castle; he wants to defend it if something’s fixing to rob the place. It’s a cultural thing … can’t see it workin’ in England. Those Brits can’t even chop down a tree on their own property without signing a boat-load of paperwork … we haven’t gotten that far. Yet.”

A dark eyebrow arched at him, but the centauride chose to ignore the apparently confusing statement. “So you would demand the liminal would stay elsewhere, and visit your home? Is that not defeating the purpose of an Exchange program?”

Leif sighed deeply. “Look, Ro’, the Program came to _me_. I didn’t go looking for things to do, I have plenty enough o’ my own. When it was just you and me at the Place, I slept in a tent. Getting a little cold now, and I don’t want to send her to the barn. Just plain rude.”

A troubled look crossed her face, something Leif missed as he switched to a finer blade. The smaller point made rhythmic sounds of metal on wood, drawing out small bits to fall. The lack of extra noise felt soothing; he could even hear the sound as wood shavings lighter than most insects footfalls hit the newspaper, some scattering other shavings and making a soft, whispering noise.

Time passed, a half hour at the outside he’d guess before the centauride spoke again.

“Is your leg in pain?”

Leif schooled his features to avoid the automatic flinch. “Not much.”

A tentative note entered her voice. “I did not cause you harm, when you were transferred to the other house?”

“Nope, not your fault,” he picked up a crescent-shaped blade. Its curled tip was perfect for what he had in mind. “I shoulda stayed put. Damn fool, me.”

Another lengthy pause stretched out. The small motions of his knife went on, dropping the small bits almost in offbeat syncopation to the grandfather clock’s own ticking. Outside, the wind started gusting again, a mid-Fall wind swirling dust and leaves in miniature tornadoes. It surprised him how fast time was passing – was it late October? No, it was early November, getting close to Christmas. Would the family come out again this year, or would they stay home?

“Would you consider allowing me to stay in your home, milord?” her voice was low, filled with a trepid caution Leif couldn’t miss. Looking at her face, he could see mixed emotions roiling through their dark depths.

He paused, thinking.

_‘Tricky. Vulnerable, don’t want to hurt her. Can’t give a straight ‘no’ then. Can’t spend too much time thinking either, or –’_

Roanette rose in a clatter of hooves. “A – apologies, sire. If you will pardon me, -- I – I must attend to my other duties. Excuse me, please?”

There was no mistaking the rising quaver in her voice at the last – the centauride was holding back tears. She rushed from the room, not waiting for his acknowledgement for the first time since he’d known her. A few seconds later the back door banged open, and a dark shadow galloped past the kitchen window, blurring into the afternoon sun. Gusts of wind curled back the curtains just enough for Leif to see shaking shoulders, and an almost frantic pace.

His knife bit into the wood with a vicious stab – Leif stared at the deep mark. It was in a place he’d cut out soon, but it betrayed more emotion than he was willing to admit.

With care, Leif put the knife back into its leather case, polishing its edge with meticulous care. The extra blades followed suit, sliding into their cases in sequential order. Each bright piece of metal contained potential, to create masterpieces of art, or just destroy if used improperly. It was an old lesson he’d been taught – take care of the tools, and they would take care of you.

_‘Am I taking care of them? Truly?’_ he put the last one away, and zipped the case shut. _‘I let them into my home on a regular basis. Shoot, they come in anyway_ , _when did I start letting that happen?_ ’

Another thought resolved that issue. _‘Guess I see ‘em as neighbors? On a subconscious level at least. Good neighbors come and go all the time, I remember when the Klemms used to pop by all the time … mostly Jenny, chasing after Piotr those last few years. Wonder how they’re doing these days?’_

Realization was slow to arrive, but when it did, his eyes widened in horror. Leif folded the newspaper over, taking the schnitzels of wood in a small funnel. Setting it aside, he studied the wooden surface for a moment. Then he smacked his forehead into the hard material.

_‘Crazy.’_ Smack. _‘Women.’_ Smack. _‘Ow.’_ Smack.

Pain emanated from his thigh, and a dull sensation from his head. The physically higher appendage didn’t _hurt_ , but the brief impacts did freshen his senses for the moment. There was little he could do to run after the hysterical horse-woman, but perhaps he could understand the situation better.

If he could move.

Leif looked at his thigh. Under wraps, it looked deformed within his jeans, clothing he’d insisted upon wearing despite the protestations of multiple parties. Getting changed _alone_ had been a challenge to his surprise – it had almost forced him to start raising his voice. Something one Did Not Do with guests. But the lumpy clothing was a symptom of the problem.

He shifted the table to one side, using his upper back muscles to do it. They twinged in protest, but complied. Without pausing to brace himself, Leif rose to his feet, letting out a pained hiss as the injury to his thigh made its staunch opinion known.

“Milord?”

Leif grabbed the wooden cane brought out of storage – being _stubborn_ had no connection to being _stupid_ – and took a step. “Yeah.”

The elf appeared just out of eyeshot, moving into view like a ghost. “You are supposed to be resti – where is Roanette?”

“Out.” Leif concentrated on his next step: literally taking another step across the room. Pain blazed, but the drugs were keeping it to a manageable throb. Irritating to a man accustomed to walking miles before breakfast.

Aredhel remained silent as he worked his way across the floor, accomplishing in minutes what would’ve taken seconds a day prior. “You rejected her?”

He stopped. “What? No. How?”

A shrug raised and lowered her slim shoulders. “She carried you on her back.”

“So?” Leif’s exasperated tone made no impact on the elf. “Wesson warned me. Might insult ‘em. Pamphlets didn’t say anything.”

“Nothing?”

Leif started to make his way to the door. The dogs were not allowed inside, an old family rule – which he broke sometimes. When things got cold, he’d move their run to the barn where cattle and space heaters kept life comfortable. But at the moment, this was a hindrance.

Moving wheels squeaked into the room, accompanied by the slow, measured step of a centaur limiting herself to her travel partner. “Hey Leif – whoa. You’re not supposed to be up and-“

“Shut up.” Leif rarely got angry, really. But the next person telling him what to do would be introduced to the business end of his walking stick.

“Where’s Roanette?” the red-haired centauride looked around. Leif ignored the tousled nature of her hair, and the likewise rumpled appearance of her blouse. If they wanted to be idiots he’d not hinder them. “She was out here was she not, milord?”

“Ain’t. Nobody’s. _Lord_.” Leif punctuated each word with a firm placement of his cane, almost stabbing it into the floor. It was a useful object – he could understand its attraction. Taking another step, he grabbed the oversized cardigan Roanette had left behind, draped on the back of a chair, and lurched the last few steps to the back door. Fumbling with the handle, he managed to get it open with hands encumbered by both sweater and cane.

He whistled, a trilling note ascending like a question mark into the sky. The note hung there, absorbed by wind and nearby treeline. But its clear tones reverberated like birdsong.

The elf came into view, just from one side. “She will not come at your call. Not after what you’ve done.”

He didn’t respond, sparing a single dirty look in her direction, making her recoil. _‘Mean. Sorry. But she’ll recover. Ro’ out there though … might not. November. Cold.’_

Barking announced the presence of three excited Border collies. They bounced around him, careful to not bump into his side as if they knew of his pain. Loyalty, and their pure affection, warmed his heart. Their enthusiastic approach raised a small dust cloud inches from his jean-covered legs. Proud of their accomplishment the trio bounced in place, eyes locked on him, waiting and ready for the next job at hand.

Leaning over, Leif gestured at the cardigan in hand. “Eugene. Scheherazade. Sniff. _Smell.”_

The two leaned forwards, wuffing deep breaths, before looking back at him. They shoved their muzzles back into the cardigan, looking away, then back, eager to keep going. The processing was almost visible, how the scent transmitted from cloth to canine brain, how their muscles tensed as another source was found.

“Dunyazade, sit. Stay.” Leif focused on the female collie. “Good girl.”

Splitting his attention to the first two he held out the cloth once more. “Roanette. You remember her? Big girl. Good with horses. Roanette.”

Eugene gave him a look questioning his basic intelligence. His mate just scanned the area, in case of approaching coyotes or sheep. She’d been trained to herd sheep at one point, but adapted well to cattle.

“Guard Roanette.” He focused his attention to how he spoke; animals were uncannily good at divining intention. Leif poured his focus into the problem at hand; the woman needed protection, she was lost on his territory, indirectly because of _him._ He’d do all in his power to see to her safety, even if she hated him. “Find Roanette. Guard.”

Both dogs were now standing at attention, ears standing straight, waiting for the final command.

“ _Guard Roanette,”_ he said one last time, then waved in the direction he’d last seen the centauride flee. “Go.”

Black-and-white blurs bounded across the back road, eyes focused on things Leif couldn’t see. They barked excitedly, back to work, running fast on familiar ground. He caught a glimpse as they leapt the back fence into the near pasture, and tore across the grass-covered hill like piebald greyhounds.

Near his feet, Dunyazade whined, shuddering as if in pain. Leif tossed the cardigan back into the kitchen, where it caught on a chair, and used the freed hand to comfort the abandoned dog. Calloused fingers found the short hairs behind its ears, eliciting a half-hearted groan. “I know girl,” he muttered. “I know.”

* * *

Leif stumped through the barn, leaning on the cane more than he liked. In his other hand was a five gallon bucket, filled with oats. Such a thing weighed over forty pounds; heavier than the equivalent volume in water. Aredhel was already passing him again, both arms hanging low with a pitchfork filled with straw. She’d insisted on helping, despite his protestations. In truth it was more a show on his part, not that he liked it.

Reaching the far side of the barn, he leaned his cane against the wall, angling it so the handle hooked over a board. He did _not_ want it to fall again.

“Hey Morgan,” he tipped the grain bucket over the trough. Oats poured into the plastic tray, modernized from the wooden slats of his father’s time. Not _all_ of them, a pound was good enough. “Enjoy.”

Oats all the time was bad for horses, but once in a while was good. He moved to another stall, pausing to rub the nose of another horse’s soft, velvety nose. “Hey. It’s what’s for dinner, aye?”

Patches snorted disapproval at the pun, rolling her eyes.

He chuckled, pouring a measure into her grain-holder, a recycled Folger’s coffee canister. “Easy girl, not like a few jokes hurt anyone.”

“Do you speak with your animals all the time?” Aredhel waked past again, holding a pair of buckets.

Leif blinked. Each of the containers was filled to the brim with water, over seventy pounds combined. She wasn’t even dangling her arms with the weight, like those unused to such exercise. He shelved the thought. “Sure.”

“Why?” she emptied the buckets, sluicing away the refuse collected from the stall. “It’s not as if they understand.”

“Well,” he thought about it, and shrugged. “Habit. Gets ‘em to know my voice.”

“Huh …” the elvish woman dropped a bucket, tipping it over to drain the last few drops. “I do not understand. How can you be so kind to animals, and so cruel to people?”

The question stopped Leif mid-scratch. _‘What in the name of sour apple butter …?’_

Aredhel tipped over the other bucket. “Do not mistake me. You are very kind, more than I’d expected humans to be after my research. But you have been very cruel at the same time. I believe some might find such behavior as an attractive quality, but I can assure you, _I do not._ ”

_‘Uh … her lips are moving, but I’m not understanding.’_ Leif startled when Patches nudged him, insisting on more scratches.

“What … exactly … are you talking about.” He left it as a statement.

The elf made an exasperated sound. “Ugh! How I wish I knew if you were pretending or are honestly _this dumb!_ ” A shocked look crossed her face. “I apologize, that was rude of me. Please-“

“Nah, nah,” Leif waved his hand. “Honesty’s never wrong. ‘Pecially if’n it’s meant to help.”

She twisted her braid over one shoulder, and started re-working its length. “You _rode her._ She offered you her back, and you sat upon it. Among centaurs, such an action is considered a _marriage proposal._ Did you truly not know of this?”

Facts tumbled around Leif’s brain like grain in his combine. Memories of the night ran through his mind like the old VHS set to fast-forward. A set pertaining to a certain centaur’s panic, and sudden formality entering her speech as she offered her own back … her nervousness. At the time it was a crush, a simple thing young women went through on a monthly basis. But a _marriage proposal?_

Heaviness bowed his shoulders. He leaned into Patches’s neck, hand twining her mane. “Oh. _Oh.”_

“Yes, _oh._ ” Aredhel faced him, arms akimbo. “She’s in love with you, or at least thinks she’s in love. Rejecting her today, on the full moon?”

“Full moon?” Leif turned his head, still leaning on the horse’s strength.

“Of course,” the elf straightened out. “It’s rather important. You were off the ranch for the last one, I assumed you knew …?”

“Red, just tell me.” Leif felt energy to argue.

“Well,” she began. “The Full Moon, among most liminals, is a heightened emotional state. Hormones are rather high, especially those enhancing … ah … strong desires for procreation.”

Leif sagged further. “They’re in heat.”

She winced. “Blunt, but not inaccurate.”

Rhythmic crunching sounds from the grain bins made their comforting sound. An old, familiar aroma of fresh hay, old leather and the honest scent of horses wafted in the air. Leif took it in, lifting his gaze at last to the descending rays cast through the barn’s open doors. They stabbed through motes of dust, dancing their ineffable dance. The breeze kicked up more dust, sending the beams into greater relief against the swirling cloud, only to fade once more.

“Consequences?” Leif found a curry brush, and began using it.

“Well,” Aredhel sat down on the overturned bucket. “If it were a formal arrangement, you would be expected to ask the Chiron’s blessing – which is difficult in this case, as Roanette is his daughter. If he refused, it would be essentially down to your forcing the issue, or Roanette rejecting his stance. You two would then elope somewhere, and hope to come back after performing some great deed to be allowed back into the herd.”

Leif continued brushing Patches, who was making pleased grunting sounds. “And now?”

A deep sigh heaved through her lungs. “You do realize that you are asking advice from her romantic rival?”

He paused, giving her a Look.

“I understand, you are not looking for a relationship,” she backpedaled. “But one does not have to feel romantic interest in order to form a partnership. Arrangements of such nature were once common, you may trust me when I say that they are an _old_ tradition. One older than elves. My mother was one of them, I must say.”

Steady brushing sounds met her words. Patches looked half-asleep, eyelids almost closed as she relaxed into the sensation.

The elf cleared her throat. “In this case, since Roanette did not use the precise invitation, and it was a case of medical emergency, it could be seen as an accident, or act of necessity. For Lady Yidderman, however, it is deeply personal. She holds you in great esteem, and to be rejected in such a way ….”

“Didn’t reject her,” Leif found himself forced to say. Honesty was the best policy, as the saying went. But it wasn’t the least painful. “Can’t … rightly say I’d have _accepted_ , but I didn’t know what was goin’ on.”

“In hindsight,” Aredhel leaned back on the bucket, raising a hand to count off fingers. “She will be humiliated, or at least will feel such an emotion.” The bucket inched across the floor, metal handle rattling. “She’ll likely want to apologize, but how can she after sinking so low? No, I believe she’ll either just give up and hand herself over to the chargers, or return and beg forgiveness.”

“Chargers?” Leif paused in his ministrations.

Aredhel dropped her hands. “Yes. The soldiers that came to your aid? Well, to reiterate the literature Agent Wesson was supposed to have given you, there are three general types of centaurs: the athletic variety, the combat-oriented kind, and the support. They’re sometimes called the palfreys, chargers, and _auxilium_ respectively, although the latter are sometimes known as ‘dairy’. It’s not _just_ milk production, but it _is_ one of their more renowned capabilities.”

“Roanette and her siblings are further in the support category, although Sophette’s mother is of fighter’s bloodlines on both sides. Their father, Chiron Yidderman, is … well … different. He is much more reasonable than many centaurs of his kind. A mutant, if you will.”

“Reasonable, how?” Leif hands dropped to his sides, listening with an intent look.

Aredhel shrugged. “In the old days, centaurs were considered monsters. Sometimes the stories were true. The less combative centaurs tried to make peace with everyone, but that didn’t help in the end. The more peaceful breeds died out, leaving the violent cultures alive.”

“Violent. This relates to Roanette how?”

Aredhel met his gaze squarely. “If she is desperate enough, she will make no objection to becoming part of the charger’s breeding stock.”

Pure silence filled the barn. Leif stood in place, unmoving. His eyes closed, then opened, and blinked. A slow frown spread across his face.

“Well she’s acting stupid.”

Aredhel’s expression made a slight dissatisfied twist. “I cannot tell if you are being deliberately callous, or that you are just an uncaring man. How can you say that? She offered you her body and soul, and you call her stupid?”

A long sigh escaped Leif’s chest. “Ain’t sayin’ she ain’t gettin’ a raw deal. Just sayin’ she’s thinking with her heart. Not her head.”

An exasperated sound emanated from Aredhel’s throat. “What do you expect? Liminals survived the Dark Ages on instinct; our populations are slow to increase. They – we – are in much closer tune with our instincts than Man, it’s within our very nature.”

“Aye,” Leif nodded calmly. “That be my fault indeed. I’m doin’ what I can. But ….”

He let the sentence drift off. There wasn’t much possible to say. How did one convey honest regret, an earnest desire to help? How _could_ one help when their very presence inflicted pain?

She paused again. “Very well. If you would accept my advice as well?”

Leif gave the horse a final pat, and left the box. He hooked the curry brush over the wall. “Sure.”

The elf stood up, staring at the floor, worrying her lower lip with her teeth before looking up. “You may wish to consider your commitment to this course. Yes you have dedicated your land, there is no greater commitment one may give in many respects; wars have been fought over less. But to Host these people, those whom will become much more in the world, means that not only will they come to know _your_ ways, but you must understand _their_ ways. Centaurs are a tactile race, once their heart is given.”

She turned, studying him for a moment. “I have seen your family. You do not embrace each other, do you?”

“No.” Leif leaned against the wall, taking the weight off his injured thigh. “Never been the huggin’ type.”

Aredhel nodded. “Culture clash. My mother experienced it when she met my father. He was not of the elven folk, but she loved him all the same. He,” she paused. “Did not agree with her family’s demands.”

Not knowing what to say, Leif took safety in the security of silence. A slow nod indicated hearing her words, yet allowed the interpretation of _what_ was being said open.

She hesitated again. “Sir. The world is changing. Or it is about to, in a way no one has ever experienced. This land, this _realm_ , will be the center point for much of the United States. You, sir, are the central pillar of this liminal community. If you do not learn to adapt, as do we, I fear for the future.”

Her booted feet walked away, soft noises on the dusty floor. His attention was drawn to the thick powder, once gravel, and would be again someday. Perhaps quarry process this time, instead of crushed stone? Either would work. Care would be needed, to ensure the horses didn’t get sharp rocks in their hooves – so perhaps just enough for the driveway. New wooden flooring would be needed for the stalls themselves in a few years – that would need to be considered as well.

“They don’t spend much time in here anyway,” Leif muttered. He glanced over at the few occupied stalls, at the soft eyes looking back. “Just had new gravel in, not too long ago?”

His boot toed at the thin dust, seeking out the heavier rocks below. Years of hard use ground the rock into pure dust – not unlike himself, he mused. The life of a rancher, or farmer, was not easy; fulfilling, but not for the weak of heart. That brought back more memories, trickling across unused portions of the mind. Or, at least, not used in the way he was now seeing.

Finding the bucket once more, Leif pushed it next to the stall, and eased down. His leg stretched out to one side, the only concession to the pain. Dunyazade, tail low, wandered close and sat by his side, just out of contact, but near enough so that he could feel the warmth emanate from her body. Absent fingers scratched her ears, trailing down into a comforting rub on her neck, just where the collar compressed her fur. Thoughts trickled through his brain, slow but steady – distilling the recent past into an unsteady vintage.

“So.” Words meant nothing, core tenet that held a world of meaning. _Actions_ spoke louder than words, not just to liminals. If words held meaning, it was to say that words were worthless.

Dunyazade shuffled closer, raising her nose to touch Leif’s arm, then dropping down again to lie on the floor, content to wait. She was more patient than Eugene, more willing to sit, even as a puppy. A good dog. Not perfect, but good.

“Ach,” Leif leaned into the smooth wood, sanded down by generations of misbehaving children. Force of habit ran his fingers over the wood, tracing patterns over its stained surface. Its inherent whorls mimicked his thoughts running free. “Been a long time, hasn’t it, Dunya?”

A soft whine agreed below eyesight.

He sighed, looking back at the rafters. Spending time in the barn comforted him; it was a second home. Why hadn’t he tried going there before? Wesson rarely entered a place he believed filled with manure and dirt. A _good_ barn was clean, hygienic enough to eat off the floor in some cases. The smooth posts were not present due to accident; long hours spent in all seasons had done it. No child was perfect after all.

“Lotta memories here.”

The courteous sigh of acknowledgement highlighted the opinion.

“Remember when I went out hunting?” Leif gestured at a segment of the wall. “After seeing Davy Crockett for the first time. When was that? Twenty years ago?”

Dunyazade nudged his hand.

“Yeah. Went out there with nothing but a big knife and a lot of attitude. Heh. Managed to get the drop on that deer though. Da’ was proud, even if he couldn’ say it. Still have the antlers somewhere. Up at The Place, I think. Tanned breeches, too.”

Companionable silence met his words.

“Before your time, girl.” A quick apologetic stroke tousled the dog’s ruff, before a quick reverse path straightened it out again. “Before your mama’s time, too.”

He continued stroking the rough fur, working muscles under his sure hands. “Grandpa told me about fishin’ in the river. Back when it ran through our property. Used to have all kinds of fish, yeah? Trout. Northern. Sturgeon now and again. Remember what he said great grandpa said? Back when the railroads were going through. Buffalo. Lots of buffalo.”

An interested groan emanated from under his fingertips. Or perhaps it was a sound of pleasure – dogs enjoyed a good backrub. Almost as much as humans.

“Think the buffalo herd is doin’ well. Haven’t checked on it in a few months.” Leif pondered that. “Hunting season soon. Should look into it. Like old times.”

Memories flashed past, darting like the swallows dwelling in the rafters. Some drew a smile, others, more of a wince. But he could visualize each one as if it were a few hours before. Riding across the Plains on horseback, learning to drive the ATV for the first time. Teaching his younger brothers how to field dress a deer, bloody though the job was, and how it was similar but different from cleaning fish. There had been a large creek once, more of a river – until the neighbors upstream had dammed it up. Good farmland had been lost because of it, but an opportunity to buy up a neighbors place had arisen for the same reason.

Good memories. Bad memories. All of them cycled and grew in his mind. Recent memories made their entrance, a proud, happy centauride and haughty elf. Both dependent upon him in a way that made him shudder.

He made a decision.

“Come on Dunya. You’re getting’ a little heavy,” the gravid nature in her abdominal region belied the truth. “But I think we can drive out and see how things are gettin’ on at Centaur Central. Havre. Whate’r. Aye?”

The Border collie yipped a sound of contentment.

“Unanimous. I’ll get the truck.”


	9. Discussions and ... blizzard.

“ _This isn’t Namby-Pamby-Pretty-Pony Camp! This is Yew-Ess Monster Corps! Now get off your collective fat asses you sons-of-mothers, and give me ten kilometers! On the double Mister_!”

Leif let the absurdity wash over him. Perhaps if he experienced enough, it would begin to make sense. Or perhaps the inanity would cease bothering him. For whatever reason, this was the correct place to seek enlightenment. According to the feline commando-doctor-person, the centaurs were training in a pasture less than a quarter mile from the small housing development taking shape with alarming rapidity. With a sigh, he looked over the terrain once more.

_“If you don’t start a-runnin’ they’ll need to call the Devil beater for your funeral you gink! Dekko me Army banjo if you don’t believe me!”_

The terms were unfamiliar, but he could deduce the intent by watching Gramps wave a shovel at a centaur lagging well behind his comrades. Old though he seemed, the man managed to catch up to the jogging centaur, and deliver a stinging slap across the rump. Surprised, the centaur jolted forwards, sending clods of earth flying.

_“And_ keep _gittin’ until you git back!”_ Gramps finished. By now the rest of the group was accelerating at a near-terrified pace. The skinny man stood, arms akimbo before shaking his head and meandering back towards Leif’s F-150.

Leif looked down, fiddling with his pocketknife, and looked up again, to see the elder man a foot away. Startled, he glanced to where the group had left, then back at the man standing before him. “Gramps.”

The other man grunted a response, before stooping to ruffle the Border collie’s ears. He’d always liked Leif’s dogs. Had even owned a few – long ago it seemed.

Silence spread between the two, a comfortable one. Some neighbors needed to talk, _had_ to talk. Their presence felt obliged to be established with so much sound it became hard to hear one’s self think in the cacophony.

Leif appreciated the older man’s silence, but needed answers.

“Spriggan, huh?”

Gramps snorted, his shifting body failing to make the truck body sway. “Aredhel?”

“Yah.”

“Figures. Her Ma was cute, but never could shut up.”

Wind brushed the grasses still standing, a chill sensation burning in its midst. It promised snowfall, not unusual for Montana at this time of year. A bit early, but not unreasonable. It brought a fresh smell, direct from the cloud titans spilling out of the inter-continental mountain range forming the nation’s backbone. Their mountainous peaks were already starting full winter, well above farming elevation but still visible on a clear day. Ranchers took such warning with all due seriousness. Like he should.

“It’s true?” Leif kept his eyes on the mountains off in the distance. Their white shoulders were lower than the previous week. He was glad harvest was finished. Winter was coming.

Gramps shrugged. “Yah.”

“Huh.” Leif considered his next move, then gave an internal sigh. There was no point wasting words. “Roanette ran off.”

Quiet, Gramps looked in the same direction, so far as Leif could tell from the shadows cast over the ground. An aged hand reached out, plucking a grass stem before planting it between old, serviceable teeth. It took a full minute before his response was given. “That right?”

“Yah.” This time it was Leif’s turn to think. How much was told in confidence? As a liminal – or what a Spriggan was – Gramps probably knew more about the situation than even Agent Wesson. But Aredhel’s urgings were somewhat personal.

Gramps stirred. “Thursday night. Carried you.”

Leif nodded a slow tempo. Nothing needed to be said, it seemed.

Taking the grass stem out, Gramps tapped the leafy end against the side of the pickup. “Full moon making ‘er jumpy?”

“I guess?” Leif spread his hands, helpless. “’Red thinks so.”

An irritated exhalation met his statement. “Rumor. Tradition. Helps control.”

“Really?” This was news. “Wesson seems convinced.”

“Pah.” A globule arced high over the grass blades, vanishing from sight. “Spriggan _remember._ Old story, too complicated.”

Facts ambled through Leif’s mind, coming to rest as he processed their presence. Universal truths were by nature, applicable to everything – but exceptions could be made on occasion. Without thought his knife came out, a partial carving already present in the other hand. Unlike the half-finished model at home, this was a simple work, a miniature copy of the barn. Once the main shape was roughed out, he’d work on the finer details. At the moment, it just served to keep hands busy as the mind worked. Frowning, his thoughts circled back.

“What’s a spriggan?”

Gramps leaned back, staring at the sky, then forward again. “Us. Spriggan. We’re … old. Male for the most part. Like Lamia. Ain’t so obsessed with sex. We ain’t that stupid.”

An agreeing grunt seemed to satisfy the older man, enough that he continued. “Liminals are part human. Kids … usually liminal. Sometimes human. One outta twenty, mebbe. Dunno.”

The spriggan cleared his throat. “Works a little different a’tween liminals, o’ course.” Wood shavings flicked into the air, caught by the wind and blown out of sight. “Aredhel … never really knew me.”

Leif paused. “Sorry.”

“Ain’t your fault. Stubborn ma. Backwards family. Got thrown out.”

There was more, Leif was certain, but it felt rude to press. His blade-tip etched a fine line, the beginnings of an eaves on the side of his model barn. “Red said something about you bein’ a Maquis trainer?”

A faint twitch of the older man’s mustache hinted at a smile. “Good times. Helped the Frenchies there. A few solid retreads from Wipers. Good men. _Damn_ good men.”

Leif’s eyebrows furrowed as they did when the older man slipped into nostalgia. His vocabulary tended to include terms from another era. Explanations never seemed to be forthcoming.

“Fought in the War Between the States. Met Lincoln, one of the few folks that knew about monsters – pah. _Liminals_ now. Think I got the picture somewhere. Great man.” Gramps slid off the unmoving truck, landing in an easy crouch, then leaned back against the running board. “Spriggan need duty. Family. Purpose. We ain’t many, but we last. Have a couple kids kickin’ around. Get letters sometimes.”

He knew that. The mail carrier liked to stop sometimes and gossip. Everyone believed the elderly rancher received mail from old comrades in other countries. But having children? That was news – it made sense in a way. Humans were only human, seeking companionship wherever they landed. Liminals, it seemed, were no different.

“Elves … big on tradition,” Gramps almost bit off the sentence, scowling at the grass. “Social standing. Was almost glad Arty did a Charlie Foxtrot on their village. Served the Fuzzy Wuzzie’s right. Ach. Good thing no dames present.”

Leif agreed – although he wasn’t sure if any woman could understand enough to be insulted.

Sighing, Gramps stood up again. Out in the distance his charges were moving, beginning their return. “Centaur culture is … different. Question is, are they here to teach, or learn? This is America. If they ain’t gonna learn where it’s safe, they’ll die in the wild. Train hard. Fight easy.”

Leif stood as well; manners counted in an area where grudges meant could cost lives. More than that, the older man deserved the gesture, if nothing else. He raised a hand in farewell, thinking. Spending so much time in thought was nothing new. Having to spend so much time in thought over someone else’s actions, though. _That_ was new. He didn’t think he liked it.

[break]

Coarse gravel pinged off the F-150’s undercarriage. It ignored minor attacks, moving forwards like an unstoppable juggernaut. Serviceable tires spun under Leif’s guidance, following the tracks made by the plethora of heavy equipment rolling through. Little rain had fallen since their arrival, rendering dusty clouds to rise in the tracks, drifting high in the near motionless air. Even from the moving cab, Leif could see the waving grass at rest, the constant breeze gone.

Frowning, he waited until after reaching a sort of large gravel parking lot before shutting down the old vehicle. Then he stared at the skyline.

Out along the distant mountains, visible he knew from near Montana’s eastern border, he could see clouds and blue sky. Clouds overhead scudded past at rates he could easily see, but the ground-level atmosphere held no disturbance. Even licking a finger brought no sensation more than the chill temperature of a late Fall morning. A very _still_ Fall morning.

Leif concentrated, closing his eyes and inhaling. Gravel dust was a predominant scent, accompanied by the sweet scent of silage. Cold earth, an odor that resembled damp clay and grass filled his nostrils. It was a smell he’d known his entire life. But there was a change, deep in the underlying strata. Something … _different._

He inhaled again, a slower breath than before. “You smell that, Dunya?”

The Border collie’s ears rose, alert eyes spinning across the plain. Her soft whine sounded of morbid agreement.

Leif tilted his head back, bringing the sun’s cool rays under the brim of his hat. “Horses. Cattle. Diesel fuel, exhaust. Kinda sharp though.”

His dog yipped once, short and reproving.

The frown deepened. “Yeah, overthinking it. What –“ he took another deep breath. “Oh. _Oh._ Snow. Yeah, that … that could be bad.”

Dunyazade sniffed agreement.

“A little early, but not o’er much.” Leif studied the sky again, this time knowing what he sought. Now he recognized the faint hints of clouds building beyond the horizon, an almost invisible layer edging their bulbous tops into sight. Depending on how swift the wind blew, the clouds themselves would arrive before nightfall. How _much_ snow depended upon many variables; his section of Montana typically got its weather from southwestern Canada, but mountains played havoc with little things like computers and whatever electronic toys meteorologists utilized.

Satisfied, he left the truck, pulling the cane out to rest on the gravel. Around him were other pickups, newer than his own and studded with decals professing affinity to construction centers across the state. Two were dedicated to a popular cellular service, and over a dozen seemed to declare an allegiance to concrete work. A dozen belonging to different installment professionals seemed to compete for proximity to a larger structure that resembled a massive barn to his untrained eye.

Frowning, he looked around. Everyone in eyesight seemed busy. No one paid attention to a crippled rancher in an ancient pickup. In truth he preferred that, but at the moment there was a matter to attend.

Letting out a sigh, he trudged forward. Gravel crunched underfoot until he reached pavement. There Leif had to circumnavigate construction workers, moving at near breakneck speeds. Some looked inhuman, like the cat people appearing around the ranch. Others were pure human, so far as he could tell.

“One side!” a lean, sleek centaur galloped past. He bore a leather messenger bag on his back, and a bright orange vest.

Recovering, Leif kept on. Buildings rose on either side of the pathway, wide enough to guarantee passage for small cars. While it wasn’t a city-sized grouping, it had more structures than the nearest registered town – simple enough, given the nearest town had four official buildings. A barber-shop pole rose from one shopfront, matched by a classic pharmacy RX symbol across the path.

“’scuse me!” this time a young dryad, leaf-green hair and childlike features bounced past. He, the first male dryad Leif had seen, leaped into a doorway, slamming it shut behind.

Putting it aside, Leif made his way to the only multi-story building visible. At the end of the path it rose on three different levels, wooden pillars supporting an elaborate overhang. What looked like carved dragon heads extended from above each level, stylized in a simplistic, yet attractive method he’d love to copy in his carvings. Whatever treatment the locals had chosen for the shingles made them look golden, like dried straw from a distance. If he hadn’t seen it up close, it would’ve put him in mind of thatched roofing. He could recognize Mr. Yidderman inside, through a long, open window.

Finally close enough to step up the low ramp, he found a long bench and a sign.

“Wait until called,” he read aloud. Then he took in the comfortable-looking bench. “I can do that.”

His leg twinged until levered at an angle. The bench provided more than enough room for that. It also provided an excellent view of the miniature town.

Less than two months before, the town site had been all fields and open prairie. Cattle once roamed the untouched hills, wandering down the short bluff to what was left of the oxbow lake. Although – if his eyes still held true, that was becoming a changed reality. The old water levels were higher than they’d ever been, and hadn’t Wesson promised something about restoring ecological what-did-he-call-its?

Soft footsteps padded along the wooden walkway, hesitating just beside him. “Sir?”

Leif blinked. “Yah.”

Slow, timid steps minced into his line of sight. Silvery-blonde hair brushed into sight, familiar if not expected. “Are you … angry?”

He checked his surroundings. Centaurs were everywhere, long ears reacting to the slightest sound. Given their dense numbers, his being overheard on a normal basis was laughable. But Roanette had demonstrated hearing like a bat, and his human voice was so very distinct. Instead of answering he motioned, waving the elf towards the bench.

“Oh, no need to move sire,” she hastened as he heaved his leg. “I will stand.”

A sensation of annoyance mixed with chagrin bolted through Leif. “Thank’e, but you should be sittin’. Manners.”

“Sir,” she shook her head. “You are my superior. I understand your reluctance, but in order to ensure everyone’s comfort, they must see you are not just worthy of respect, but are actually receiving respect.”

This time annoyance shot though his system in an inimitable surge. Should he, or shouldn’t he? “Red. _Sit_.”

Fractions of a second later her denim-clad buttocks hit the bench. Wide eyes focused. “Yessir.”

A tired groan fought to escape, but he manfully shut it down. “This is America. You came to my ranch, to learn how to work in America. Well, I’m _tellin’_ ya how to do it. First: _no royalty._ We ain’t had kings and dukes and what have you in over two hundred years; I’ll be _hanged_ if I’m the first to break that tradition.”

Her head nodded as if attached on a pivot. “No Royalty, sir.”

“Second,” he gave her a serious look. “No slaves. Over half a million men died to quit that.”

“No slaves,” she repeated.

“Last one. We don’t hold with human breedstock, arranged marriages, or what have you. If’n you wanna, that’s your business. But it’s frowned on by most folks in the good ol’ Yew Ess of Ay. Clear?”

The elf hesitated. “Do you mean you will not condone arranged partnerships, or contracts arranged by parents for their children’s marital futures?”

“I mean,” by accident he slipped into the tones he tended to keep for recalcitrant bulls. Cattle responded to lower voices, calm and certain. “No means _no_. If a woman says no, that’s it. If a man says no, that’s final. _No means no_.”

To his surprise the woman nodded in frantic agreement. “Yes milord, as you command.”

Leif hesitated, reviewing the last few seconds. The thought slid away from his grasp. Something about traditions? No; it would return if important. But at least this seemed to resolve an ongoing problem. Perhaps life could return to normal once again, a more _normal_ normal, instead of whatever insanity was passing for normal these days.

He should’ve known better than to tempt fate like that.

“You talk big for a little man.” Heavy hoofbeats crunched on the gravel sidewalk.

Leif ignored the interruption. This was the most he’d talked in a single conversation in quite some time – but it felt important. “You got questions, talk to me. Alright?”

“Yes milord,” the elf flowed to her feet, bowing. “Your directives will be obeyed.”

A heavy snort tried to make itself known. “Lord? That runt?”

“Red,” Again he ignored the interruption. “Last thing. Bad weather comin’. Your folk ready? Dryads under cover?”

“Bad weather?” she cocked her head to one side. “The forecasters predict a low probability of fog, but nothing else.”

Leif looked up at the sky again, taking off his hat. Cool air tugged at his forelock, chilling the sweat-slicked strands. Now that he focused, he could see faint ridges of ice on the banks of the lake, during the warmest portion of the day. More than that, a chill in the air stabbed at his sinuses. Familiarity enveloped his recognition at each breath, breathing promises.

“Yeah. Snow. Maybe wind,” it was a relief to know his blizzard kit remained intact, close at hand in the pickup. “Don’t know how much. Glad the cattle are under cover. It feels … cold.”

Annoying, hoarse laughter broke out. “The little man thinks it’s cold? He needs to spend less time sitting inside and more time building some muscles.”

Leif ignored that too. Sometimes the smallest minds rested in the largest bodies. This had to be a centaur. For a minute he considered what needed to be done next; why he’d come to what was once free range. The thought responded with gratifying swiftness.

“Need to see the, ah, _Chiron_?” he chewed over the word. “Caleb. Him.”

“Of course,” Aredhel agreed. “I will see if he is available.”

A large hand seized the back of Leif’s shirt, hauling him off the ground. He was rotated to see a confusing conglomeration of horse and human, in Spandex of all things. “You _dare_ to disturb Father at these propat – dilemmen – uh … times? He must focus on what is important, not the bleating of small men.”

The door creaked open and another voice, deeper and older, interposed, coming from the large frame of the centaur he sought. “For this man I will do so my son. Please, put the Lord of the Land down before he hurts you.”

The hand let go, dropping him back to the bench. A quiet grunt escaped when his injured leg rammed into the bench. Aredhel was at his side in an instant, a look of fury on her face. “You dropped him! You could have injured him, again!”

From the new angle Leif could see the new centaur, a being whose human portion resembled that of a professional body builder, exposed to the world in one of the snuggest shirts he’d ever seen. Muscles bulged at every gesture, flexing at opportune moments. Supporting the muscled torso was an equine half of equal proportions; akin to a Clydesdale. Four sturdy legs with hoofs the size of dinner plates lifted and fell with surprising agility for something that seemed to weigh over a quarter ton. Capping off the ensemble was a head where, for the first time he recalled, relation to the father could be seen. It had the same high forehead, and similar nose arrangement. The ears were visible too, tapering into points like all the other centaurs Leif had seen, but with the higher fore-edge observed on Mister Yidderman’s head thus far.

“If he’s hurt that easy –“ the younger centaur began, but his elder cut him off.

“Philip,” his voice went low. “Size does not mean harmless. You know this.”

The younger individual lowered his head, a mulish expression on his face. “Yes sir.”

“Good.” The word’s meaning and the voice in which it was spoken were in complete opposition. But the elder turned back to face Leif. “I confess I did not expect you, Lord Larsen.”

Pursing his lips, Leif gave the second liminal he’d ever met a remonstrating look, but let the term go. “Gotta minute?”

“For you? Of course. Please, come inside.” Yidderman backed into the doorway once more, French doors that rose in a graceful arc half-again above Leif’s height. Wooden flooring provided a flexible base for Leif’s boots, but stood more firm than simple boards could provide.

Once inside, the centaur led Leif and the two others down the building’s length. Windows were visible along each wall, a full forty feet apart. Large couch-like constructs were scattered across the floor, thick rugs insulating the ground yet further, and two large fire pits made of ceramics held positions of honor on either side.

Leif nodded approval. “Fire’ll be handy soon.”

“Indeed?” Yidderman commented from in front. “I heard what you told Representative Lithlinede. My people will prepare themselves for the evening.”

“Good.” There wasn’t much to say about it.

“Just a moment more, ah.” Yidderman ushered them into a large room sequestered at one end of the building. It spread across the entire structure’s bottom floor, sparse decorations highlighting the vast space. Several paintings hung on the wall, featuring grasslands and ancient forests, sometimes in the same frame. One oversized cuckoo clock held a place of honor on the wall opposite the desk, a construct appearing to have been made out of an entire stump, containing a tamed eagle perhaps.

“Welcome to my office. I had hoped to welcome your first visit with more pomp and celebration, but this is not such a time, I take? You have refrained from visiting Havre before now. What is the problem?”

Leif avoided looking out the window, at the rows of buildings where tall waving grass had grown. “Roanette’s gone off the reservation.”

The eldest Yidderman looked puzzled. “I’m sorry, I do not –“

“Ran off.” Leif clarified. “We – talked.”

“Oh.” A dark look entered the male centaur’s eyes. “May I ask what the subject of your talk entailed?”

Hesitant, Leif considered refusing to speak. But Caleb was Roanette’s father. Who else had a greater right to know?

“She explained ‘bout riding her. I didn’t know. Bit ‘o a shock.”

Caleb’s hand rose, stroking his beard, deep in thought. “You refused, then.”

“Didn’t get that far.” Leif looked him straight in the eye. “She left. Then I heard about things I don’t rightly like the sound of.”

“Go on.”

“Breeding stock. Arranged marriages. Situations where folks can’t say no. Can’t say I like that at all.” Leif’s steady look wavered a hairsbreadth from turning into anger, but steadied into something almost melancholy. “Not here. Not in America.”

A sudden breath caught his attention. The larger, younger centaur was staring at him. He gave the youth a questioning look.

“Do you … truly mean that?” Philips tone contained a strange intensity. “Would you hold non-humans to the same cultural standards you do of your own people?”

“That’s … right.” Leif grew wary.

“Philip!” Caleb’s fist pounded on his desk, sending a paperweight over the edge. The two centaurs shared a long look, exchanging information that even Leif could detect. Small twitches communicated … _something_ , he couldn’t tell what. But the way Philip’s tail swished in response hinted at deeper things.

Heartbeats later, Caleb sighed, looking down. His large head gave a single slow nod, while Philip’s back slumped in relief.

“Forgive my son,” Caleb swallowed, then looked up. “He plays a difficult role.”

Leif eyed the pair. “Aye …?”

This time Philip bowed his head. “I must apologize for my rude words. Due to my position, I am expected to be the strongest and most combative. Manners to unproven strangers suggests weakness.”

“With that perception,” Caleb added. “Philip has assisted my control over the … less tractable members of our people. This is part of the reason I advocated the centaurs join the Initiative.”

A mild disoriented sensation flitted through Leif. When would life return to normal? _Could_ it achieve even a newer sense of normality? But this explained their meeting earlier. “Testing me.”

“Guilty as charged,” one large shoulder rose and fell. “But returning to my point, do you intend to oppose Liminal cultural practices?”

Leif gave him another look, this time the version saved for slow dogs and bumbling visitors. “You folks came for a safe spot. To learn. Well, I’m teachin’.”

“Some of our … impetuous members might challenge you.”

Incredulity made an appearance on Leif’s expression. He looked down at the cowboy boots on his feet, then at the hardened calluses on both hands. “Horses. _Me._ Problem?”

“Some are blooded warriors,” Caleb warned, a deep calm in his voice. “Our lives have not always been so idyllic. To those whom have suffered, enmity stands deep in their hearts.”

“Then what’re they doin’ here?” Leif shot back. “’Sides. Y’all aren’t horses. Makes it easier.”

Philip flexed his musculature again, annoyance flickering across his countenance. “How does that make things easier for you?”

A slow answering grin spread across Leif’s face. “Horses got instinct. Don’t hesitate. People stop and think _._ ”

“But,” Philip objected. “That’s why we train. So we do not hesitate.”

Another shrug lifted his shoulders. “Even better, in my book.”

An exasperated grunt punctuated their discussion, aided by a glare from Aredhel. “In case we have forgotten our purpose here, Ms. Roanette is missing. Are we looking for her?”

Leif leaned back where he stood, folding both hands atop his cane. “Yah. But big picture’s important. What’s the centaur take on it?”

The elder centaur stroked his beard thoughtfully. “In truth, this will aid my people more than I’d hoped. I confess, my initial plan involved arranging three of my daughters to align themselves with Mr. Larsen; at the very least the improved genetic potential could have gone far to save my race. Should you be amenable, two dozen centaurides would be willing to have you sire their young.”

He did not squirm under Leif’s accusing gaze. “I apologize for not telling you everything at our earlier meetings. However I do not regret withholding information vital to my race’s existence.”

One of Leif’s eyebrows rose. “Me.”

“You indeed,” Caleb smiled. “You. While centaur males are by no means so brutish as legend portrays, we have our issues. By incorporating the contributions of outside influences, I am hoping to alter my race’s descent into an even more primitive state.”

Leif’s other eyebrow joined the first, delivering an incredulous expression. “You want me to be _breeding stock?_ ”

“If you were willing, of course.” Caleb spread a hand wide. “It was an idea, nothing more. I did not pursue the notion beyond the planning stage, and have not encouraged my daughters to follow suit after our initial encounter. Fortunate, as it has turned out. My eldest seems smitten with your neighbor, and you are seemingly uninterested in carnal relations at all. A pity – your genetics would go far to dampen the brutishness my people often display.”

Rage, mixed with resignation warred for dominance. Leif considered his options – in truth, nothing had occurred. But the intent behind actions could be seen now, in hindsight. Caleb’s utter willingness to send his daughter with him alone, out of sight. The encouragement received by multiple entities to maintain a healthy relationship. It made his blood boil to just think about it. But in the end, nothing had happened.

“I take you are uninterested in a polyamorous arrangement?” Caleb inquired.

Leif blinked. “What?”

“He _means,_ ” Aredhel snapped. “Do you want a harem or not?”

“What? No!” Leif took a step backward. “You ever see the Chinese symbol for trouble? Two women under one roof.”

Aredhel folded her arms, looking unhappy. “If people act with consent, and mature behavior –“

“Tell that to Raymond,” Leif retorted. “Died five years ago I think? Had a place ‘bout quarter hour drive East of here. Had three or four girlfriends. Thought he was _so smart._ Didn’t need to listen to common sense.”

Philip flicked an ear at him, interested. “What happened?”

“House burned down, no survivors.” Leif checked the sky again. “Don’t know who started it. But yeh could hear the yellin’ every night for a couple years before it happened. Can still see the foundations if you drive out there.”

“Elves practice polygamy,” Aredhel noted. “We have managed to succeed.”

“Yeah. How’s your _dad_ feel about that? Y’know, the fella out on his own, yelling at folks?” Leif held her gaze until her eyes dropped. “That’s what I thought.”

Philip cleared his throat. Huge muscles flexed as both arms folded before his chest. “Interesting as this is, I believe we are straying from the point. Summarized, I believe we can acknowledge the harem plan as defunct, our cultural introduction to America upgraded to what I can only term a ‘crash course’, and a centauride – my sister – under the influences of strong hormonal flux roaming in an area filled with potential issues.”

“You are right, of course,” Caleb groaned. “I suggest that the easiest problem be solved first. Where do you think Roanette went?”

“The orchard?” Aredhel suggested.

Leif withdrew as locations began flying around the room. He had an inkling where the centauride might’ve gone, but it would take a while to drive there on low-maintenance roads. Plus bad weather moved across the Plains faster than most would believe. Throw in the mountains to muddle the patterns, and it was always better to move sooner rather than later.

His cane tapped a quick rhythm as he hustled back. The truck waited where he’d left it, protected by a cat-eared individual he was _certain_ had remained at the ranch. Without a word the feline humanoid gave Leif a short bow before leaping to the ground, vanishing into the centaur’s mini-town.

Leif’s keys popped open the pickup door, his injury making the transition from standing outside to sitting inside a minor pain.

A hand took the cane from him as he sat, hanging onto it while he slammed the driver’s side shut. It took until the V-8 diesel engine rolled over for Leif to realize what happened, and look up to find Aredhel’s blazing eyes daring him to protest.

“I know you are self-sufficient,” she settled herself next to Dunyazade, who rested half her bulk in the elf’s lap. “But you yourself said bad weather is coming. Plus, you are injured. It is my job to help look after you.”

Leif spared another minute to look at her, then jammed his hat lower. “Hang on, then. Gonna be a bumpy ride.”

[break]

Driving over low-maintenance roads was rough at the best of times. Infrequent, heavy vehicles dug ruts in the topsoil, tracts of bared earth baked hard by the summer sun while wind and rain wiped it clean of ambitious seeds. In the past, the route once carried wagons, before then bison had wandered its length. But now it was a pickup from a different century, engine rumbling defiance against the rising wind.

Specks of moisture slapped the windshield, faint dots freckling its transparent surface. A strong gust made the vehicle shudder, bending treetops, near doubling them in some cases.

“What is going on?” Aredhel hung onto the Border collie now firmly ensconced in her lap. “We had rain predicted! Fog!”

Leif cast an anxious look at the northwest. Towering clouds rose over the mountaintops, dark and heavy. “Blizzard. Temp’s dropping, fast.”

“Blizzard?” the elf gasped. “In November?”

The truck’s suspension jounced over a boulder’s extrusion into the road. The wind increased from strong to a howling blast.

“We need to get back to the house!” she shouted over the wind. “Lady Roanette will go there!”

“Can’t.” Leif’s quieter voice was hard to hear. “Cattle. Gotta check.”

“ _What?”_ Aredhel’s incredulity pierced the oncoming storm. “I have read about your blizzards, they can last for days! Subzero temperatures, unstopping wind!”

“Yep,” Leif slewed the truck around a bend, coming up to the twisting section. “You got it.”

Her protests went unheeded as they skidded to a halt near The Place. It was an older home, built in a different time, when Sears had sold kit homes through catalogues and railways delivered them to the nearest depot. Leif jumped out of the running truck, ignoring the cane. He ran to the door, popping open the storm door, the wind fighting its movement. The main door almost exploded inwards by contrast, swinging too only after Aredhel ducked inside, closing the storm door behind her.

Leif was already elbow deep in a closet, pulling out heavy clothing. “Here.”

The elf took a mass of fabric from his hands, a parka that would not have been out of place on the Amundsen expedition. “What is this?”

“Parka.” Leif was pulling on another heavy coat, zipping the front shut and jamming a shapeless woolen thing over his head. A string tied under the chin completed the impression of a refugee from some second-hand knitting shop for amateurs. “Hat too. Hurry.”

Taking the proffered garb, she pulled it onto her own head, cinching its knot tight. Heavy gloves, leather mittens over more wool fingered elements, gave elvish dexterity a look and a laugh. “You have over a hundred cows out there, do you not? You can’t hope to –“

“Hired help.” Leif shoved his own gloves on. “Just gotta check. Come on.”

The elf winced as they returned to the outdoors; in the few minutes they’d spent inside, the temperature had dropped. A hard wind had become dagger-laden, sending lines of impervious knives past her face. Bending into the wind, she scrambled into the truck, pausing only long enough so that his door shut before hers opened.

Before it closed the truck was moving, jolting over uneven terrain. Long minutes passed, tiny flakes too small to see beginning their obscuring dance. A pine stand less than half a mile away grew hard to see, a shapeless dark blob in the distance that grew less visible by the minute. One did not appreciate how short such a measurement was, until it made a personal difference.

“Who is working there?” Ahead, long, low sheds came into sight, squat and strong against the strengthening wind. Already white lines were building along ridges, collecting snow.

“I hired the Nelsons,” Leif had to shout over the wind. “Good boys. Smart.”

Cattle stood, huddled under shelter. Well-fed cows could generate a great deal of heat, and a herd of them were more than capable of withstanding a snowstorm. Leif couldn’t begin to remember the number of times he’d come out to see a vast snowdrift shudder, then turn into a row of cud-chewing cattle, content in thick fur and their internal furnaces. But there were a few barns available, blocking the worst of the wind, providing shelter; well-ventilated structures providing enough shelter to be comfortable.

The F-150 punched through an open strip, cattle barrier rattling beneath its tires. A smaller building, cinderblock walls cemented against the weather, was his destination. He could see movement behind thick-pane glass windows, followed soon by the home-made door pop open.

Leif guided the vehicle to a stop, and hopped out, landing on his good leg. He cast a firm look at Aredhel. “Stay in the truck.”

“But –“

“ _Stay.”_ Leif’s tone brooked no argument. He reinforced the statement with a glare, and slammed the door shut.

After ten minutes he reappeared, two red-headed figures shouting advice inaudible through the wind. Leif exited, returning to the pickup and climbing inside. Ten minutes wait had not been long, but the air had gotten cold enough to generate frost on the back windshield. Wherever one of them had breathed on the windows, delicate lines of ice looped and whorled their way into existence.

“Getting’ colder.” Leif pulled off the leather mittens, holding the more flexible portion over the air vents.

Silence met his words.

He looked up, catching the elf looking away with a huff. Leif blinked, puzzled, but let it alone. Reversing course, the truck crunched through drifts a half-inch tall, growing and falling under the unpredictable wind. Through the windshield, bursts of dry snow could be seen blown across the ground. By now the temperature had to be well below freezing, into the negatives if he was any judge. Not the fastest temperature drop in recent history, but respectable nonetheless.

A chilling sensation kept his attention on the road; even behind closed metal doors tiny bits of snow could be seen, lining the interior floorboards. Every new gust drove a little more inside, stabbing at the warmer air in jealous rage. His leg hurt, no _ached_ in the cold. Hopefully it would heal soon.

The truck climbed against the wind, pushing upwards. Leif stopped at the highpoint, getting a good look at the countryside.

By now the pine trees were invisible. Swirling gusts hammered at his F-150, rocking its suspension from side to side. Blue sky, visible only an hour prior, seemed to no longer exist. Dark gray overcast clouds flew at dangerous, low altitudes, lower edges curling in shapes reminiscent of waves. Lower, Leif could see less than fifty yards. He understood where the home place was, but the road was now covered in a layer of snow, blending with the untended grasslands.

“Took too long,” he muttered. A shiver prompted him to pull the parka closer, checking the liner. “Came in too fast.”

The faint sound of a telephone broke the storm-enforced silence. He looked over to see the elf push Dunyazade a bit further forwards, reaching into her coat to withdraw a chunky-looking cell phone. “Representative Lithilinde. Hello? Hello …? Oh. Yes, he’s here. We’re out by The Place – yes. You found her? Goo – repeat that please? Hello?”

He started driving again. The longer they waited, the worse the storm grew.

_‘Not a storm. Blizzard.’_

Down below, Dunyazade whined agreement.

Leif shared a short look with the Border collie’s caramel-colored eyes. _‘Going to have to hunker down.’_

There was no other choice, really. An old-fashioned Montana blizzard could freeze a man stark-stiff twenty paces from his house. Once the wind worked itself into full frenzy no one could determine direction an arms length from their front door, and only the most foolhardy would even attempt it. It wasn’t December though, which meant the temperature wouldn’t drop _that_ far – although throwing liquid water and watching ice fall might be an entertaining proposition. Even if it could take place in the sheltered entry of the house.

“That was Wesson,” Aredhel interrupted his thoughts. “Roanette is back at the house, worried about you. I told them we were fine for now.”

He shrugged, motion invisible under his thick layers. “We’ll stay at The Place until things calm down. Safe there.”

She nodded, punching digits into her phone once again. “Very good.”

By the time they’d reached the old farmstead, the howling wind had grown to a scream. Were he of the superstitious bent, Leif would’ve believed voices were moaning terror from the skies. It was a bone-chilling sound,

Dunyazade shivered in Aredhel’s lap, whimpering. She placed a calming hand on the canine’s head, quieting its fearful utterings.

“Almost there, girl.” Leif made an educated guess, turning out of the main path through a back route. Memory served well, bringing the two-story house into dim view through a clouded screen.

“Are you speaking to me, or the dog this time?” Aredhel snapped.

Leif spared a grunt, but said nothing.

Long minutes later, even this close Leif refused to travel faster than the utter minimum, they stopped. For a moment the two sat in silence, listening to the fierce wind. By now the blizzard was past white-out conditions, the trees were invisible despite existing less than a dozen yards from the truck. Faint sprays of the crystalline flakes cooled Leif’s cheek, still being driven through the cracks too small for the naked eye.

“Waelp,” he paused as another blast sent the pickup rocking. “Door’s unlocked. Make yourself at home.”

The elf moved, pulling up her hood and laying a hand on the door, then paused. “Aren’t you coming in?”

Leif shifted. “Well, not tonight. Got my kit out here,” his hand patted a robust looking container tucked away. “Figured I’d drive into the Quonset. Warm enough there.”

Aredhel’s stare battled with the arctic atmosphere for dominance. “In a blizzard. Sub-zero temperatures. After all the things you know you’re responsible for, you want to pull the Nobility card now?”

“I’m not going to try sleepin’ in a tent,” Leif protested. “A mite cold for that.”

“ _’A mite cold for that_ …’” the elf repeated. The look on her face changed from irritated to determined. Her mittened hand darted forward, snagging his elbow in an unbreakable grip. “Lord Larsen. You are not going to shame me before my ancestors. You will suffer the indignity of my company or I will send you to them myself!”

“But –“ Leif managed to get the first part of the protest out, but utterly failed to express the rest as the elf dragged him out of the vehicle, leaving just enough time to pull the keys out. It was a realization that came somewhat too late in his way of thinking, but liminals had a habit of strong-arming their own way. At least they were safe, who knew how long the storm would last. Perhaps he’d better check on the generator. And the backup firewood. And the kerosene lamps. A rancher’s work was never done.


	10. Storm Talk

Leif sat on the large chair his grandfather once used, settled between the kitchen and the living room. Glass shelves, once at home in a neighbor’s General Store showcased decades of accumulated junk, resting on the western wall. The inner door to a short, inner vestibule was shut tight against the blizzard; through its glass panels the outer door could be seen, stronger and heavier, but just as tightly shut. Beyond the second door was the storm door, latched against the main door’s deadbolt. Triple blocks against the subzero temperatures, built to last.

Shifting to see the windows passing across the full length of the living room, Leif focused on the protective barriers. It had been fortunate they’d been installed so early – no one had expected winter to arrive so soon. In their time the windows had been pure, but decades of maintenances saw a few streaks of paint along the glass’s outer edges.

Wind blasted from the north and west, hammering the walls behind his back. Unlike the southern-facing side, the northern wall had a full entry extending a dozen feet beyond the main wall and boasted a door installed at right angles. The entry was a protective structure that curled out and sideways around the house proper. People entering that way would have shelter from the wind as it broke over sharp corners, providing still more insulation within from the freezing weather.

The sky itself was dark, although the wall clock insisted the sun had to be overhead. Shuddering wind tugged at the eaves, flexing the outer window panes.

Leif smiled, and lifted his cider mug. Its contents tasted sweet and hot, impregnated with cinnamon and cloves he’d found in the spice cabinet.

“This place …” Aredhel held her own mug in both pale hands. While not shouting, the volume of her voice was above normal conversational levels. “This place is a marvel! You have filled it with food, in the off-chance of being stranded?”

With an embarrassed shrug he tried to change the subject. “Worked out.”

“’Worked out’? Milord, we could remain here for months and survive, nay thrive!” A suspicious look appeared, along with an expression the rancher couldn’t interpret. “Did you foresee this eventuality? The records I reviewed have not referenced such a storm in years. At least, not with frequency.”

A pause bowled over the conversation as the wind rose to higher pitch and fell, warping across corners in quavering notes, matching the flickering lights. Buried power lines were a significant asset, but having a generator in the basement was one of the smartest decisions ever made, in Leif’s opinion. Its quiet hum whined upward in time to the windy influx, but went back down in moments. Leif cocked an ear, just to be certain, but the small engine purred along without interruption.

“Eh, can’t go wrong with stockpiling.” The hot drink warmed his insides, fragrance tickling the inside of his nose. He’d have to think of doing something nice for the centaurs, once the storm was over. Their cider products were truly exceptional.

“The weather forecasts suggested thunderstorms, turning to heavy snow,” she narrowed her gaze. “Perhaps you heard it on the radio? I know you do not hold with televisions or internet.”

He shrugged again, taking refuge behind the wafting steam. “Eh. They’re fine. Lotta noise, though. Just gotta watch the sky now and again.”

“Right.”

A timer dinged in the kitchen. Leif set down his beverage, on his feet before the elf could react. Her hiss of annoyance brought a smile to Leif’s face, despite the twingw coming from his thigh as the pain medications wore off. The elf had issues, but was a decent enough individual, he supposed. Letting him work in his own kitchen had been a significant challenge, but a victory well-worth obtaining.

“So tell me about your folks,” he donned an oven mitt, reaching into the blessed warmth of the four-burner oven to pull out a casserole. No fresh produce meant frozen and preserved foodstuffs, but such a reality did not require they live in primitive conditions. Heat emanated from the cooking apparatus, waging brutal conflict upon the encroaching cold. Temporary victory brought waves of heat to Leif’s face, chilled by returning cold as he rotated away.

“Where should I start?”

He shrugged, checking on a pie still in the oven. “Jobs?”

A cleared throat sounded from the direction of the table. “My parents serve our people, the Sindrel, as minor nobility in the _Shwarzerwald Föderation._ We trace our line past the _Uradel_ status, before the Romans began their march north and west. Our tasks are to establish relations with external parties, although truth be told it has been less forward in the past than current events demonstrate.”

The casserole landed on the table, centered in the kitchen itself. No sense letting the warmth go to waste – steam from the oven already made frost on the kitchen window. Temperatures were bottoming out below zero, perhaps thirty degrees lower. Unusual this early in the year.

“Old, huh.”

“Indeed,” Aredhel alighted on the chair opposite, making a graceful gesture. “The _Shwarzewalden_ entity has protected our people for over two millennia, until the World Wars broke out.”

“Changed things a bit,” Leif bowed his head over the meal, muttering the table grace. Then he looked up. “Gramps?”

Aredhel slumped. “Ah. Of course. My mother had a … dalliance.”

Leif raised an unimpressed eyebrow, dishing out a serving. Freed from the container’s confining structures, steam exploded into the air as he dropped a generous helping on her plate. A second heaping amount landed beside the first. “More?”

“Later, perhaps.” Her eyes followed the large serving spoon. “I am an only child. If you speak with other elves you will realize this is unusual.”

“Ah.”

A silent nod was her only response, eyes lowered. Was it shame? Fear?

He grunted a non-indicative sound. Dysfunctional families weren’t a topic discussed around the Larsen family table, along with politics. Discouraging the subject with noncommittal sounds worked with the family. Leaving a subject alone tended to bring alternative thoughts to mind; but here, it seemed to have the opposite effect judging by her pensive expression.

Neither spoke as they ate. Leif kept an ear on the wind, listening for its cessation and she thinking about whatever it was elves thought about. All storms drew to a close, even the legendary blizzard-filled winters found in history books. What had the last one been? An El Nino? Possibly La Nina – hang if he knew. There’d been a major wind every week or two, forcing the majority of livestock into shelter and a fortune in feed. Well-fed cattle generated more heat than an equivalent mass of coal, he believed. That year had been expensive in feed, but at least most of the cattle had survived.

A tinkle of metal on glass brought his attention away from the howling wind. The casserole was good; a little bland, but filling and hot. Right now calories and heat were two essential components for survival. Given the weather, Leif was glad of the supplies stashed across his ranch. It was a pain to gather, but invaluable in such times.

“I believe my mother truly loved my father.” Aredhel spoke, almost inaudible below the storm. “My parents’ marriage was approved if not … consummated.”

He felt a little ill. This conversation was veering straight into the depths of uncomfortable.

“Mother never talked about my birth father. My face has always been different, you have no doubt noticed how my ears are much longer than other elves.”

He’d noticed no such thing; there’d been more important issues to solve. Paying attention to ear shapes belonged to anthropologists and political hacks.

“As half-Spriggan, my lifespan will be double of other elves,” she stared at the spoon in her hand, rolling its reflective surface in circles. “But the same cause reduces my fertility by half. An issue with hybrids, you see. I hope that does not diminish my value?”

Leif choked. “No? Uh … why?”

A relieved expression flashed across her face. “For procrea –“ a massive gust slammed into the north wall, sending shockwaves through the floor. The elf’s ears twitched, alarmed. “We have had many harsh winters in my homeland. But none that strike with such fury.”

Leif rose again and headed for the kitchen, nodding sagaciously. “Open plains. Nothing to stop the wind. If it weren’t for the windbreaks, it’d be a lot worse.”

“Worse?” her spoon froze midair. “I must raise my voice to be heard, the windchill is over sixty below zero, and the forecasters predict the storm shall not cease until the evening of the morrow. Truly it brings new meaning to the phrase _howling wasteland._ ”

That made him laugh. Here in the warm kitchen, it didn’t feel so bad, this place was his _home._ “Try livin’ through it with just what you can scrounge up in a summer. Mandan tribe made big huts outta dirt and logs. Settlers dug down sometimes, or made sod huts. Winter’s ain’t always this bad.”

Her sensitive ears caught the slight evasion he’d made. “What happens if they are?”

A sigh puffed the pie’s curling vapor into chaotic threads. “It’s hard out here, for some. Most leave. Takes … planning. Surviving out here.”

Her manicured eyebrow rose in a delicate arch. “A proof very visible from our current position. Was that part of your plan? To ensure I was in a suitable mindset, perhaps amenable to demonstrating gratitude? Your actions today have evinced a deeper level of cunning than I have come to expect.”

Leif snorted from the kitchen. Thick oven mitts protected his calloused hands, carrying the bubbling pie into view. “You’re makin’ it sound like I waited for a storm, and tried to kidnap you.”

Aredhel blushed. “Forgive me … I did not quite mean that.”

If he’d been looking, the rancher might’ve noticed the elf’s eyes watching, as if waiting to be caught in a lie. But the moment passed in a heartbeat.

Leif’s hands carried the pastry to a safe resting place on a cushioned potholder resting on Formica, a false wood layering over a pasteboard construct. The pie sat on the table, sending warm fragrance into the air. A gout of steam erupted at Leif’s first cut, roiling higher than his shoulder before disappearing. Once more he could smell apples and cinnamon, with enough butter and sugar to give an elephant second thoughts.

On a day such as this, it was perfect. Sunset would come early, which meant an early bedtime. Such a thought delivered an uncomfortable twinge down his spine; if necessary he’d flee to the barn. Less the preparations it would be uncomfortable, but livable. Perhaps if he’d dig out the space heater they’d used during a brief experiment in raising sheep – yes. That could work. Or perhaps there was another plan that he could use ….

A slow smile grew. This could be fun.

* * *

“Milord?” a soft voice interrupted Leif’s musings.

He set the old book down, bookmark sliding into place. Outside the sky had deepened to a pitch-black appearance, a blur of white reflecting the little patch of light his window presented to the elements. “’Red.”

Aredhel sauntered around the side of the couch, trailing one hand across its back. Her lips quirked in a tiny smile. She stopped, stretching in a pose a few steps away. “Are you ready for bed?”

Leif looked straight into her face, not giving himself any chance to be distracted. His peripheral caught a vague impression of sheer fabric, and an overwhelming presence of tactically situated lace, but his focus was too honed for that. “Yah.”

The little gesture turned into a large smile, showing an impressive array of perfect teeth. “I have been anticipating this moment—“

“Sorry, but no.” Leif kept his hands where the elf could see them. If she’d been observant, she’d also notice the knife laid on a table across the room, well out of reach. Trust was spoken in actions, not just words. “Don’t know what Ro’ told you, but I ain’t … ah … been with anyone. Ever. Not changin’ it now.”

“I … see ….” Aredhel’s shoulders started to slump, but remained steady. He wouldn’t have caught it if it weren’t for years keeping a weather eye out for potentially dangerous behavior. Their small upswing suggested the importance of her next question. “Then you are not romantically engaged with Lady Roanette?”

Leif slapped his forehead, letting out an explosive sigh. This was turning out to be un-entertaining after all. “’Red. Full honesty. I’m not interested in a relationship. Friends, sure. But I’m old school. Hanky-panky is for after marriage in my book.”

A thoughtful look crossed her face. “Hmm, I can see the advantages of that. Sex tends to blur reason. Although I cannot see any advantages to waiting if you are already engaged.”

“Just …” he settled back in the sofa, rubbing at a pending headache. “Look. It’s how things are for me. If you want to get a boyfriend and fool around, any problems are all on you two. People are different. Liminals got a really high sex drive; I get it. But what I believe is still my belief. I ain’t gonna push myself on them, and they can’t push themselves on me. To me, respect means waitin’, an’ I respect you and Ro’ too much to … do it.”

Not for the first time did Leif wish he were less awkward.

The elf looked down, thinking. He let her, watching as thoughts almost visibly raced through her mind. Finally her shoulders slumped. “Fiiine.” She almost flounced to the door – no, it turned into an actual flounce. Some kind of cloak came into her hand, swirling around to close in front. “Do not believe I have given up, Milord Larsen. There are many other … _competitors_ against whom you will need to hold such resolve. They will be less respectful of your intent, if not of your _desires._ ”

Leif snorted.

After her departure Leif set up a few candles against the window. It was just enough light for working inside, and provided a potential beacon for the lost. Setting up a slow beef roast in the kitchen took even less time, arranging a steel dish under a cloth to thaw beside a sourdough jar. The latter drew his attention for a moment; had Roanette left it there in their previous visit? It was in good condition, newer than expected. It had been sitting in the deep freeze as well, nestled beside the apple pie earlier.

Shrugging curiosity away, he pushed the Mason jar a little closer to the oven’s warmth. A pleasant odor wafted to his nostrils with the action. He’d have to make fresh bread in the evening. Or morning, depending.

It was a good feeling, to be honest. The sensation of being proof against the cold leant arrogance to his soul, and put time on his hands. What should he do before bed? Perhaps another chapter of _On War_ , with an accompanying chess game? It was always interesting comparing realistic strategies to the constrained environment on the small board. There was a whole stack of books left at The Place from previous inhabitants; entertainment was not hard to come by, if one enjoyed reading.

* * *

Waking under the weight of three heavy blankets and still feeling the nip of cool air felt like home. Unbidden, Leifs memory called up images of old days, when the window was open a crack at all times, leaving a constant airflow. Rarely had it been closed; blizzards were one of the few times, but even then he’d loved the refreshing breeze in stale room. Long storms led to a lack of moving air, used and reused by nine family members. A little chill was worth it.

Cautious, he extended his head from beneath the blankets. Only the hair on the top of his head had been exposed, chilling to the touch. _‘Have to break out more towels. Freeze dry ‘em in the front porch.’_

The air, while cool, was not as cold as he’d feared. Spending a week on insulation work during the hottest time of the year had been well-invested after all. Those memories of blistering sunshine were hard to recall, with the wind howling outside.

He cocked an ear. The wind still howled, but it wasn’t as bad as the previous evening.

Quiet groaning brought his attention downward. Dunyazade was rising from the rug beside his couch. Her thick fur had seemed impervious to the cold, but he could also see that the blanket he’d draped over her was firmly in place.

“Mornin’.” He pushed up with a groan of his own, flipping the blankets over his legs. Cold air rushed against his T-shirt clad torso in an invigorating blast, driving out any desire to resume slumber. “Bit cool, eh?”

Dunyazade gave him longing eyes, a pleading expression on her face.

“Ach, ya. I’ll feed you.” Leif almost got the first few syllables out of his mouth, but the Border collie lunged towards the kitchen, and the bag of kibble, therein. “Easy girl, easy.”

On days such as today, the dogs stayed indoors, a rare treat. Dry bits of processed grain and meat clattered into the metal dish, followed by fresh water. Then Leif opted to use the shower before his guest awakened.

Once again Leif blessed the foresight of his ancestors, and himself to be perfectly accurate, in their insulating efforts. The bathroom soon filled with steam, billowing in slow undulations away from the cold window. He watched it for a minute, inhaling the humid air; what little moisture was escaping the inner seal was turning into a sheer rime on the storm window. The frigid blast met the window, and turned back.

Leaning over, he tapped the frosted glass, a mocking smile on his face. “Can’t get in, no you can’t.”

A hot shower stimulated his senses, bringing the days activities into full view. _‘Ain’t anything to do out here but relax, maybe. Horses are fed, cattle are good. Can’t work on the thresher … what to do?’_

Near-boiling water made the experience difficult to leave, but he extracted himself from the heady sensation. Leif couldn’t resist letting the water run a few more minutes as he found his pants, and shaved by feel. Steam covering the mirror prevented the more standard methods of tonsorial practice, but by now he didn’t need light, let alone a mirror. A straight-edge worked more by feel than sight anyway.

He’d just started the delicate area behind the jaw, scraping the lather away from its curvature when the door swung open.

Aredhel slumped through the steam, eyes half-closed, a bundle of fabric clutched to her chest. She paid no attention to Leif, dropping the clothes on a cinderblock behind it, of which no one remembered the origin, but had long served many purposes. His own pajamas sat on the block under her clothes, perhaps resembling a covering for a very small table in her sleepiness.

“Thank you Courtney,” Aredhel mumbled. The folds of her housecoat separated before Leif’s shocked eyes. “Mmm. Warm.”

He made an involuntary cough, having inhaled a fragment of lather, and discovered he could not stop. It was a very impolite gasp, spluttering and choking as the acetic flavor caught his taste buds. Hacking and spitting wasn’t the appropriate way to alert someone of his presence, he was certain, but the alternative left a bad taste in his mouth – literally.

The elf’s eyes popped open, hands freezing. Her bright orbs took in the entire room, roving around the muggy interior, stopping for a moment on the iced window before latching onto Leif’s bare torso for several heartbeats. She stood there, unmoving in a deep blush that went down past her collarbone.

Leif recovered, wheezing a moment. Nothing changed, except now he could see that the flush did indeed pass by the elf’s collarbone, and the very untenable choice of clothing she’d made for a cold winter’s morning. He chose to attribute the visible response to the cold – and the blushing factor to the unexpected steam. A double standard, but safer for his sanity.

He cleared his throat.

Aredhel’s eyes snapped to his face. Somehow, her blush intensified, turning her light tan into a dusky pink. “Sorry … um. Would you need assistance, perchance?”

He didn’t miss her eyes drifting down across his bare chest again, or the slight overbite she hadn’t exhibited before, front teeth nipping at her lower lip.

This was becoming irritating. For all the bipedal humanity this elf displayed, her behavior was all too similar to that of the quadruped centauride.

Taking a step took him a few inches from her front; it wasn’t a long step, just a foot or two that covered the linoleum in a single stride, almost to the door. She looked up, thin eyebrows lifting over dark green eyes, long lashes fluttering over their limpid depths. Swallowing, she retreated a half step, pupils widening. One hand reached out, finding support in the door frame.

Leif kept his eyes on hers, moving forward again and forcing her to drift backwards another full pace beyond the lintel, her hand releasing the door frame. He could feel her warm breath coming at faster intervals, a faint twitching in her ears becoming pronounced. A firm look entered her expression, and she stopped moving, a dusky hunger roiling in their depths. “My … My Lord?”

He leaned forward, just past the untidy blonde strands, quite unlike their usual pristine state. Her quiet gasp sent another puff of warm air against his uncovered pectorals, the same quick movement sending her pointed ears brushing against his jaw. Lowering and tilting his head made the angle just enough so a quiet whisper could reach. He licked his lips.

_“Knock. First.”_

Stepping back and closing the door in a single smooth motion slammed a solid six feet of Live oak in the elf’s face. It left her clothes on the cinderblock, but she was a big girl; she could wait a few minutes until he finished.

“Blizzards.” He touched the lather on his face, dismayed at its growing rigidity. He’d have to move fast. “Drives folks loco.”

It took a few minutes to finish, reworking the stubble on his upper lip. Clean shaven wasn’t a warm look in winter, but having company all the time meant the usual winter standards could not be kept. Annoying, but life did not obey desires.

* * *

Fully clothed, Leif opened the door, to meet the elf’s semi-glazed stare. He grunted a polite greeting, wondering a little at her behavior, but put it out of his mind. “Bathroom’s yours.”

Aredhel nodded feeble agreement, unmoving. Her position seemed to have not moved from where she’d backed out of the bathroom earlier – there was just enough room for him to edge past without making contact, not that it seemed to have made much difference. Given her attitude he likely could’ve marched a ten-man brass band past her and not triggered a reaction. Long minutes passed before he heard the door close, a muffled exclamation, and the hiss of water.

Reaching the kitchen – after a short stop to put his dirty laundry in a carrying tote for the machine back at the ranch house – and started up bacon and buckwheat flapjacks. There were no fresh eggs or fruit, nor would there be until a shopping trip or the following spring, depending. Butter froze well, as did meat of any sort; dried meat kept just as long as many other preserved goods, and The Place had been fully stocked. Running electricity there when no one had been living there seemed wasteful at the time, but he did not regret the decision now.

A faint whine caught his attention from the floor. Pitiful eyes begged from the floor, obeying the order to _not_ _beg_ , but making the Herculean effort visible in such a way as suggested deserving just compensation for obeying such challenging orders. Self-control was difficult when one’s nose held such sensitivity, and rested in close proximity to the wonders of Bacon.

Leif glanced at the snow outdoors, blank whiteness filling the view. It looked cold, it felt cold, and held enough raw elemental fury to turn half a continent into ice. A shiver ran down his spine; getting caught in the blizzard would’ve been bad. Maybe not dead, but there was a strong chance.

“Good thing we’re inside, eh girl?” he flicked a piece of bacon out of the pan. A silent, black-furred interceptor missile tracked the falling morsel of deliciousness, ensuring no grease endangered the floor. “Thanks. Bit of a health hazard, that could’ve been.”

His silent guardian chuffed a modest acknowledgement, resuming her watchful guard.

A faint change met his nostrils, matched by the changing sound as the pancake reached completion. A quick flexing of the wrist sent a small wheat-based disk into the air, landing on its soft side. Fresh sizzling grew louder, joining the kitchen chorus, wafting the odor of breakfast to new heights and a smile to his face. Who could frown in the presence of fresh pancakes?

The pile grew steadily larger, golden brown circles piling upon each other. In observance of tradition, the topmost flapjack was the largest, providing insulation for those below. Where the tradition came from, Leif had no idea. But it didn’t hurt anything to follow, and lent a sense of history.

In time, his guest made her appearance, announcing her presence with a mild clearing of her throat.

“Mornin’,” he kept his eyes on the pan after a quick glance at her flushed face. An easy wrist flip sent the next flapjack under the blanket pancake. “Nice day to stay indoors, eh?”

The perfectly coiffed elf glanced at the scene outside. Her ears quivered. “As you say, Milord.”

Bacon slid from the second pan to a plate, a healthy serving. “Just Leif. Or Larsen. _Please_.”

She hesitated. “I will … try. Larsen.”

“’Bout time someone did,” he muttered. “Here. Breakfast.”

Aredhel took the plate, looking at the small mountain of meat with askance. “Ah. Shall I get a serving fork, sir?”

“Wha- ?” he looked at the plate again. “Oh. No. Yours. Grab a stack of flapjacks, butter’s on the table. Syrup in the fridge. Fill your boots, as Gramps says.”

Another pause, and the elf added two pancakes to her plate.

Leif rolled his eyes, and filled his own plate. His own assembled assortment of flapjacks rose over three inches beside the pile of bacon. Dropping the frying pan into the water-filled sink to soak, he brought his plate to the table. After a brief bowing of the head, he added butter to the stack, glistening as it melted. Maple syrup darkened the already browned material into a mouthwatering display. It felt almost like a holiday, if it weren’t for the liminal’s constant presence.

Aredhel watched him before taking her first bite. “What are your plans for today Milo – Larsen?”

He gave her an approving nod. “Wait, mostly. When the blizzard eases up, we can make a push for home.”

“Ah.” Her eyes followed the progress of his fork. “How long will that take?”

A casual shrug lost elegance under the effects of his full mouth. It took a moment before he could swallow. “Depends. Hours, days. Don’t know.”

“ _Days?_ ” her hand rose to cover her mouth. “Ah, not that I do not appreciate your company milo – Larsen. But storms like that could only be found in tales.”

Another eloquent shrug covered for his next mouthful. “Happens now and again.”

“But … but … what will we do?” a panicked look was entering her eyes. The blush had vanished, only to reappear, eyes darting around the room, looking at anything but him. “I – this morning I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking and-“

“S’fine.” Bacon by itself was good. Bacon and pancakes, mixed with butter and maple syrup was _divine._ It shouldn’t have been abused as it was so currently doing, almost inhaled. He took a moment to savor the food. “First night. Confusing.”

The dusting of pink spread across her cheekbones remained firmly in place. “Yes, it was our first night together, wasn’t it? Not quite what I imagined, but wonderful nonetheless.”

He decided against commenting.

It was of no surprise that the elf went back for seconds. Leif did as well, somehow dropping another piece of bacon to the silent watcher below. As before, the potential grease hazard failed to threaten their footing.

“You play chess?” Leif broke the silence of silent minutes of mastication.

The elf tilted her head. “Yes? My tutor made certain I could play.”

“What say you we play a round or two after breakfast?”

A bright smile, one she’d rarely exhibited before lit up her face. He liked it; it felt less artificial than some of the other expressions she’d demonstrated. “I would love too!”

Eating took up less time after that. Clearing with the elf’s quick, almost inhuman speed returned the dishes to the cupboards in half the usual time. Before an hour had passed they were arranging pieces on the board in the living room, sitting parallel to the room-length windows.

_‘This is new,’_ the thought ran across his mind, surprising and yet not. _‘European trained. Isn’t Chess one of the most traditional games they’d have?’_

Brief static on the radio proved the wind’s strength, obscuring Dvorak’s _New World Symphony_ , played by the Minneapolis Philharmonic, from time to time. Leif felt almost like nothing had changed from years past, spending time with a brother out in the storms watching over cattle. Of course, his current companion was very definitely not male, and did not react the same way, jarring him out of the comfort zone at every instance.

_‘Make the best of it,’_ he moved a pawn, and watched it fall. _‘Ain’t her fault.’_

Her playing style was intriguing, he had to admit after the first two matches. The elf was strong when it came to using bishops, but weak to multi-pronged threats. What it said about her personality was beyond him, but it was interesting. Her mannerisms were equally telling; experienced of a certainty, but given to tapping her left ring finger when conflicted, and flaring her nostrils during prolonged exchanges. On the surface, it was nothing. Combined, it started to hint at strategies.

“So Gramps is your dad?” he wasn’t above a touch of psychological manipulation. Testing Roanette had been a little dangerous. This was better. No snakes.

Her eyes didn’t so much as flicker. “Yes. In a manner of speaking.”

Waiting a few moments failed to elicit a reaction. “So you’re what. Seventy?”

She gave him a harsh look. “It is not polite to ask a lady her age.”

An easy shrug gave no indication of his motives. “Can’t exactly pick up a book on elves at the library. Not a real book.”

Her irritated growl almost put a smile on Leif’s face. He resisted.

“Elves are … long lived,” she finally admitted. “We develop at slower rates – a rough comparison would place me in my mid-twenties, were I human.”

Math made an end run through Leif’s brain. The answer hijacked his mouth before common sense could stop it. “Something like a three to one ratio then.”

Aredhel gave him a keen look. “Yes, that’s one way of looking at it. We live perhaps three centuries on average. Lord Cylriborn died three years ago, after reaching his three hundred and seventy-fifth birthday.”

He whistled softly. “Almost five to one there.”

This time her glance had an almost hungry look to it. “You have a quick mind.”

“Eh,” he adjusted a knight’s position. “Just business.”

“Oh really?” she countered with a pawn, which he answered in turn. “Fascinating. Many humans have trouble working out simple division, let alone percentages. Are you faster with your mind, or your hands?”

Leif held up a hand, angling it so the calluses were visible. It wasn't hard, seeing her eyes snap to their durable appearance, and lick her lips. "Mind second. No contest."

Aredhel made her next move without watching the board. “Hmm. You do seem to have strong hands.”

He took advantage of her distraction, but brought his arm down. A moment’s distraction was one thing, but outright abusing that was quite another. Plus it was a bit disturbing, eliciting such a reaction over just a hand, the way she eyeballed it.

The elf made a disgusted noise, looking at her most recent move, the piece now sitting on Leif’s side of the table, behind the board. “You did that on purpose.”

Pretending innocence had never worked well for him. “Yep.”

“Oh now, aren’t you _interesting._ ” Her expression shifted to something he didn’t recognize, but was starting to associate with Roanette and her perennial attempts to get him to ‘ride’ her.

Perhaps this had been a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A moment of silence for my Beta. The individual has been loving his job, but has not responded in three months.
> 
> (Removes hat, holds over heart) Be well my friend.


	11. Discovery

Morning came once more, dawn breaking in silence. The suddenness woke Leif from a deep sleep on the couch.

He poked out his head once more, feeling similar to one of the turtles deep in muck. Thick blankets had protected him from another night’s chill, a little cool, but nothing more than he’d experienced. He still preferred his bed, back at the ranch. At least he had a cane to help with the hard part of rising – he could see the carved handle leaning on a nearby chair.

The broad windows facing south were tinged with frost, shimmering a bright, translucent glow. Likewise there was no overwhelming sound of blizzard emanating through their panes, just the faint stillness of the usual early morning.

Leif swung his feet out from beneath the covers, wincing at the frigid sensation meeting his sock covered feet. Forward-thinking had placed a rug nearby, although slippers would’ve been better. Those little comforts were still at the ranch, along with his carving set, a year’s supply of fresh beef, and an unfathomable number of reasons to stay away one of the biggest nerds he’d ever encountered.

A glimpse of chess board triggered a groan. _‘How many matches did we play?’_

This time he took a shower in record time, verifying the location of his discarded pajama pants and towel first. _Somehow_ , his flannel shirt had gone missing since the previous evening. Given the number of guests, the guilty culprit was obvious – although why an elf would want a worn-out sleeping shirt was beyond him. _‘Not a thief, I’d have thought. But rags or not, it was still a theft. Unless I lost it.’_

That uncertainty prevented Leif from confronting the elf. Provided she was the thief indeed, she’d probably turn it into a discussion over Plato’s _Republic_ or some such thing. Fun for a while, but the woman was insatiable when it came to the classics.

Tapping the cane across the floor, he slipped the radio over to classical music, and settled on the kitchen chair, waiting for the first bubbles to percolate. It was shaping up to be a glorious day; driving back to the ranch would be slow, but not overly much; the truck was filled with gas, and –

Unexpected radio static almost blew out his eardrums. A booming nasal tone jerked from the speakers.

_“… interrupt your standard program to bring this important announcement ….”_

Lightning-fast reflexes caught the dial, twisting the volume off a setting perfect for one of Mozart’s _Largo_ ’s and to a volume more appropriate for loud radio hosts. He cast an anxious look at the bedroom where Aredhel resided. There was more than one bedroom, of course, but getting out sheets for another bed seemed a waste; not to mention the peace of mind that came from being able to honestly state he’d slept on the couch.

_“ … A special service announcement from the President of the United States. We go to our reporter live at the White House.”_

Leif frowned at the needless blather following, a competition of sorts between multiple voices explaining how much ignorance existed, and why this state that had survived for so long now held such importance. _‘Only so many ways to tell the world you know nothing.’_

By his knees, Dunyazade whined, ears lowered in anxiety. He nudged her with one leg, comforting the animal as best as he could.

_“Again, with these other species in existence, international policies are changing to include regulation reflecting this new reality. The Interspecies Exchange Act, set to become law in two weeks, has passed debate in almost every national government. Multiple nations are refusing to comply, and state they will not be participating. These nations are …”_

Leif frowned as the list continued. _‘Larger than I’d like, but not as bad as it could be.’_

Long past the time breakfast should’ve been ready Leif still sat, staring into the cloudless day, listening. News continued to blare out of the radio as coffee swirled in his mug, sending whorls of steam into the air. Like the vapor visible from the cattle sheds across the way, his mug sent wisps drifting straight upwards, a windless day both inside and out. Still weather bode for peaceful times in his experience. A rule which could prove false this day, he feared.

“Guh-guh-morning Larsen,” Aredhel’s yawning arrival made no impression on the rancher. “Sorry,” she finished, jaws clicking shut a few times. “What are – sir?”

Leif flipped to another station, this one devoted to reporting on a riot occurring in Rome. “It’s begun.”

The elf stood stock still, listening. Then her eyes widened. “News about the Exchange?”

“Yeah.” Leif flopped the device off. “Almost too late.”

Her head tilted, a long ear becoming exposed as silky hair parted. “Explain?”

“Well,” he hesitated. “Ain’t simple. Guessin’ they’re trying to do it like a Band-Aid. All in one go.”

Aredhel winced.

“Too early and folks get worked up, get a good head of steam going; too late, it’s a big nasty surprise – smart. The world’s full of that kinda thing. People are dumb. Don’t like surprises. Market’s jumping like a frog on a hot iron stove. Half of John Q. Public is convinced it’s a lie. Other half wants to lynch everybody, and themselves. Lots of publicity photos I guess? Talkin’ heads keep mentionin’ them. Good strategy.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the elf’s motions, pulling out the blocky construct used to communicate with her superiors – he assumed. Ignoring her hushed tones took no effort either. Gabbling into midair had once been indicative for a cell, usually of the padded variety. Given modern habits, Leif wasn’t quite sure if the practice should’ve been discontinued.

He’d just bent over to refill Dunyazade’s water dish, when the satellite phone was deactivated with a final-sounding click. It was followed by an expectant silence.

Rolling his eyes, Leif finished what he was doing before turning around. “Yah?”

“Agent Wesson is offering the use of a helicopter, in order to bring you back more quickly.” Aredhel glanced at her wristwatch. “Should you agree, it will arrive in fifteen minutes.”

Leif took a look outside, at how the snowdrifts mounded man height against solid obstacles, and left the ground bare in other areas. He nodded. “A’right.”

“ _Really?_ ”

He twisted to see an aghast expression on her face. A raised eyebrow conveyed his confusion.

“I mean, no offense, but you haven’t … I mean, when you’ve been offered help before … it’s just that.” Aredhel shook herself, exhaling a forceful breath. “You are a very independent man, Milord Larsen. I mean Larsen.”

Leif gave her a blank look. _‘Not sure if that’s liminal angle thing or just the female gender that’s crazy.’_

The comment almost escaped, but experience in female relatives managed to intercede in time. _‘Yeah. That’d be rude.’_

Domestic tranquility preserved his new focus rested on locking down the house. There were a hundred things to do, from opening the lines to prevent burst pipes to powering down the generator and loading up his clothes. Which brought another thought to mind. _‘Where the heck did my shirt go? And my pants? I was sure they were in that laundry bag ….’_

* * *

The helicopter came in what felt like moments, a chunky model, ungainly like a bumblebee’s incompetent relation. Its pilot possessed superior skill to his ignorant eye, guiding the tubby craft to a solid three point landing a hundred yards from The Place. Snow flew upwards in chaotic bursts, a second snowfall, but without the biting wind. Trees whose branches still retained last vestiges of Fall twisted in a mad hatter’s dance, whipping shredded bits of dry leaf across the sky.

Wesson beckoned from the flying monstrosity’s side door. Professional concern shifted to a wry expression as his Asian eyes caught sight of Leif, rucksack in one hand, a Border collie’s collar in the other.

“Please, Larsen!” Aredhel beckoned him onward, clutching a duffel bag of her own. “Hurry!”

Steeling himself, Leif took off at a jog, head low. An uncle had warned him of the dangers, to run low and _not_ straighten up. Dunyazade’s keening fear was lost in the grinding _whop-whop_ sound from the circling blades. The volume overwhelmed his hearing worse than a stampede.

_‘Don’t think of it now. Run.’_ Short steps, firm on slick patches of ice. His boots were well-suited for such travel, not the slick-soled cowboy boots he preferred, but good Wellington’s, brought over from England. Old they might’ve been, but they were well-oiled, and repaired with quality material. _‘Keep moving. Almost there.’_

Wesson didn’t bother reaching for Leif, choosing instead to heft the Border collie aboard. On his part, Leif made an awkward hoisting move, pulling himself into the vehicle like a too-small tractor cab. Behind Aredhel leapt inside, graceful and practiced.

Shouting something inaudible, Wesson banged twice on the forward pilot door. At the same time, a pair of serious-looking men hauled the side door shut, lending helping hands to stow the minimal loose gear. In response to either the shouted command or the banging sound, the helicopter’s rotor accelerated, straining faster to lift the wallowing craft skywards. The floor jerked like a bronco under Leif’s feet, toppling him over into a web-seat, where he clung to straps until Aredhel and Wesson managed to push him upright.

Somewhat embarrassed, Leif focused out the window. An involuntary gasp drew eyes his direction, which he shook off. Seeing The Place swivel past over a hundred feet below was an unexpected sight – but what else had he expected to see? From this altitude he could discern bare ground alternating with deep drifts, piled around his pickup. He could even see the bathroom window, frost still on its surface from the steam of the last shower completed that morning.

A bulky object pressed itself into his lap.

Looking down, he found a helmet, Aredhel’s slim fingers holding it in place. Donning it took contortions he’d not imagined possible under the circumstances, but the end result diminished the spinning rumble into a dull throb.

_“Mister Larsen, can you hear me?”_

Startled once again, Leif jerked, hitting his head against the restraints. _“Easy there, you okay?”_

He had to shake off the weirdness of it all. “Yeah. Wesson?”

_“Hit the button – oh. Thank you Aredhel.”_

The elf gave a thumbs up.

_“Right. Larsen. Summarized, we’re headed back to your ah … base, ETA twenty minutes. The news has been dropped, and we have less than three weeks before the first volunteers head out.”_

“Yep.” There wasn’t much to say in response to that. The distant ground skidding by far below was of far more interest than the government man’s explanation.

_“Ambassadors will be meeting with you this afternoon; we’re having to push up the timetable.”_ Wesson continued. His rectangular cellular phone appeared like magic. _“We have cell service now; I’ve arranged for a unit to be put at your disposal. Use it or do not, it is your decision. No changes have been made to your home, again at your request.”_

Leif noticed a flying object outside the window, far larger than any bird. A face turned, looking gleeful. “Wesson … is that …?”

_“Harpy, yes. The Nekos are present already, and the lamia are in the basement. I couldn’t stop their making some sort of distillery down there, the parts were already present according to their specialist.”_

Leif sighed. There went Great-Uncle Georg’s still. “And Ro’?”

_“She is overseeing preparations … although it seems the Neko volunteer is taking care of the immediate meal plan.”_

He caught the uncertainty, even through the static. “What?”

_“It’s just … you’ll see when you get there. It’s too crazy to explain, and I know crazy! I’m a professional!”_

_“Agent, what do you mean?”_ Aredhel’s hand was clenched, relaxing a heartbeat later. _“Milord’s dwelling was agreed to be held sacrosanct until well after the Accords were made public. Years after, mind you.”_

Leif remembered that codicil. He’d inserted it himself – with the option for renegotiation. No contract was perfect, possessing an out made the difference between success and breaking faith.

_“Try telling that to a bunch of moon-crazed naga!”_ Wesson retorted. _“My best alternative was tranquing the lot of ‘em, and reptiles are resistant to toxins. Resistant and rowdy, at least to what I have on hand.”_

_“Agreed.”_

Aredhel’s instant response surprised Leif for a moment. Then he shook it off. Events were moving too fast to waste time on surprise.

Ground skidded past at an alarming rate. It felt wrong, somehow. Horseback took several hours; a vehicle took less time, but a more circuitous route. Flying from one point to another felt like cheating. Pilots trained for hundreds of hours, but their passengers? _‘Get in, zip over, get out. Don’t have to work for a thing.’_

He frowned. Was that … _jealousy?_ That wasn’t healthy … if it indeed was envy. Instant transportation didn’t feel like something he’d want for himself, there was far too much to see on a long drive. But could one be jealous without being envious?

Before the thoughts could finish percolating through the slow processes of his mind, there was a hitch in the helicopter’s progress. Looking down, Leif saw the ranch house swing into view, then rotate away as the vehicle began a slow descent. It wasn’t a _fast_ spin, but it was sufficient to make his stomach lurch.

_‘Better’n bustin’ a bronco,’_ he tried convincing himself. _‘Lots worse. No hooves. No bashin’ heads.’_

Such thoughts failed to quell an uneasy stomach, until the helicopter touched down. Feet back on solid ground, Leif felt his uneasiness flee. He didn’t feel truly _safe_ though until well-away from the helicopter and its whirling guillotines. _‘Efficient. Fast. Terrifying.’_

Dunyazade bounded next to him, stopping to sniff at tracks crisscrossing the yard. Gravel beneath the snow provided a rough surface beneath half-frozen ice and snow, an affection city-folk eschewed in favor of smooth concrete and asphalt. Silliness, in his opinion. The price for wanting easy driving conditions half the year.

His front door opened before he reached it, showing Roanette’s tall figure. Her smile lit up her entire face, sending an uncomfortable twinge down Leif’s spine. It was obvious she held deep-seated emotions for him … despite his best efforts.

“Milord! You are safe!” she seemed about to charge, but paused, then retreated. “Come in, come in! Lunch is being prepared, you two must be exhausted. Come _in!”_

Leif met Aredhel’s eyes, and broke contact. Both women meant well. So with a sigh he stepped inside, stamping the snow off his boots before stepping inside, and stomping once more on the mat. Packed snow melted fast, creating a mess – best to remove it with a broom while solid.

While taking off his boots, he couldn’t help from sneaking a few looks around the room’s interior. Certain things were … displaced. Not quite _wrong_ , but changed. The photographs hanging on the wall were the same, but two pictures on an end table were swapped. A throw rug had been moved forwards, closer to the door rather than resting before the bathroom further up the hall. It was as if someone had been performing a deep cleaning – was that ammonia he smelled? Just what was –

“Welcome home, Master,” an unfamiliar voice interrupted his musings.

Leif focused. The speaker was one of the cat folk, pointed ears, long tail and – strange clothing. Black and white with lace and … things he had no name to describe. The cat person curtsied, looking down at the floor. “I am Fanchon Francesca Kissasen, your maid. Will you be having lunch?”

Stunned, Leif could only gape at the newcomer. Her ears twitched, growing increasingly nervous as he stared. _‘Another one. Another intruder. At least she’s wearing more than the last batch. Still not gonna keep her warm … but_ another _one?’_

He stood his boots in a corner to dry on a rubber mat. Walking past the cat person, he managed a friendly nod, turning into the living room and seeking out his own room. Something told him the upcoming discussion was going to take time. Better get comfortable first.

* * *

“Sir, the _Blankett de Veau_ is ready,” a quiet, mewling voice murmured. “Would you prefer your repast here, or in the dining room? Lady Yidderman, Miss Lithlinede and Master Wesson await your pleasure.”

What comfort zone had been present abandoned Leif’s mind in a rush when the very carefully dressed neko first became visible, standing at a deferential distance, head lowered in a way that made him uncomfortable. He got the feeling that she’d enjoy a physical conflict, if her brother was any indication. But the servant-like attitude – no. Not _like_ , it _was_ a servant attitude, but closer to servile than servant. There was a difference.

Unlike Aredhel or Roanette, this woman seemed to have a very quiet personality, one that had not lent itself to questioning, in the few short hours he’d been home. It had been somewhat discombobulating to discover the cat-eared woman straightening curtains when he’d decided to treat the mystery as a hunter’s dilemma, sitting in a chair like a deer stand.

This woman _just_ _happened_ to speak with a French accent, and possess a seeming adherence to the concept of there being some great need of French maids in America. Where she – and her fleeting coterie, Leif hadn’t forgotten them – gotten _that_ addle-pated concept he had no clue.

“I’ll go to the kitchen, thanks.” Leif shoved himself upwards, ignoring how the cat-eared woman scrambled to assist his progress. The cane he’d whittled for Grandpa Larsen thumped on the floor, its handle more comfortable to his hand than anticipated. Putting weight on his leg hurt. About what one would expect should metal penetrate the meat of a muscle; meds were helping deal with the pain, but yet it seared like fire when he angled his foot wrong; he’d had worse, of course. Downplaying it was second-nature, but it still hurt worse than it’d been in days.

He shook his head. _‘It’s just pain. Thanks for telling me something’s wrong. Go away.’_

The wound stabbed at the thought, as if refusing. Pain did that, sticking around when least desired. He hated that – it made him feel weak, not that admitting it to anyone would help. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the pain and walked toward the kitchen.

In the Larsen household, the kitchen held an open floorplan that connected to what others might call a dining room. All Leif cared was that it had a long table, big enough for most of the family if they showed up. At the moment, the only non-human people present were Roanette and Aredhel, who sat on the right and left sides, respectively. Both had insisted he sit at the head of the table – something about tradition and position. Wesson sat at the opposite end, frowning into a rectangular object of plastic and glass.

“You know,” Leif paused after washing his hands. Both of the women had risen to their feet, looking at him with anticipation. “I could just hunker down on the stool. Less fuss.”

Roanette gestured, sending Aredhel forward, long ears sweeping in the resigned fashion he’d come to recognize. “Milo – _Larsen –,_ you are the Master of the House. Historically, the Lord of the Manor, until the rules changed in England. Here, you are still of significant importance. Please do not argue with us upon this, it is most necessary.”

Giving his own sigh of resignation, Leif allowed himself to be guided by the blonde elf to the table. She took his cane, leaning it against the nearby wall, and resumed her own seat. “Thank you sire. Fanchon, please bring in the _consommé?”_

The woman curtsied, darting back into the kitchen. In a heartbeat she returned was a tray, carrying three steaming bowls of a clear, fragrant liquid. Small bits of parsley floated on their surface, dark green contrasting the pale orangish-yellow coloration. Its scent reminded Leif of chicken soup for some reason, but on a far more delicate level.

She finished placing the bowls down, arranging silverware in a deliberate setup. With a bow, the neko retreated to stand by the kitchen.

“Um …” Leif glanced at her position, then down at the table at the four bowls. “You gonna eat?”

“Later, sir.” the cat-person _– Fanchon, have to remember that –_ curtsied again. “Thank you for asking.”

There was a pause for the independent forms of meditative gratitude. Aredhel was the first to finish, and lifted the soup to her lips, drinking it in with an appreciative sound.

Leif felt uncomfortable, with the attentive neko watching him, but forced the discomfort from his mind. He lifted the spoon, and tasted it. Rich flavor spilled over his tongue, the aroma of chicken obvious but enhanced with multiple herbs. He couldn’t _see_ anything in the bowl itself, other than the floating parsley, but somehow the essence managed to come through. Despite the intent to remain stoic, he found himself grunting in approval.

The neko’s ears twitched, he was certain. _‘Damn that hearing.’_

Wesson stirred, but shook his head. “We need to speak, Larsen. But it can wait until after we eat. Nothing’s changed overly much since you arrived.”

He nodded back, returning his focus to the meal. It was an interesting change from normal cuisine. The _consommé_ was followed by a _soupe à l'oignon,_ which looked like some kind of liquid solidified into a bread-like concoction. That, in turn, was followed by what the blonde elf called a _Blanqette de Veau,_ and Leif considered a hearty stew. It was a _strange_ stew to be certain, with odd spices and a gravy thickness that could’ve floated buckshot, but it was a stew nonetheless.

Logic clicked through Leif’s mind as the final course was served, something the knowledgeable-sounding Aredhel called a _crème brulee_. He winced at the bite of some kind of alcohol spread over the top, but the seared sugar melted on his tongue. Nevertheless he couldn’t stop thinking.

Acceptance rose to the surface of his mind as the neko collected dishes, laying out an after-dinner beverage. He raised it to his lips before catching the heady aroma, a rich scent bringing to mind some of the old bottles laid down by more liquor-minded relatives. Deciding in favor of retaining a keen mind, he handed the glass down the table where Aredhel and Roanette engaged in a ritualistic duel of glares over its contents.

He hoped he never got that passionate about alcohol.

“If we might begin?” Wesson wafted his own wineglass, taking a sip after inhaling the air over its surface for some reason. “To summarize, riots have broken out in three major cities, nothing major but notable. I’ve heard from Agent Seneca, out in Washington State, and there are no problems apparent with the Centers there. Overall I’d say the reaction is ranging from medium to mild.”

“The public reports seem to say otherwise,” Aredhel countered. Distracted, she did not recover in time to prevent Roanette from acquiring the abandoned wine glass. An angry glare, sharp enough to flense a medium-sized boar failed to make an impression on the victorious centauride.

Wesson waved a hand. “Media are in the business to make money. Have you not heard the phrase, _‘If it bleeds, it leads_ ’?”

Roanette snorted. The half-full wine glass was held at a smug angle in one hand, surprising elegance in its posture. “My people have long learned to mistrust common rumors; what else is a story told to many but a rumor given credence by name? There were those who cast centaurs as villains and pillagers – that we have been. But our entire race is not populated by such brigands!”

“Possible.” Leif folded his hands, watching. “Free press. Old right, First Amendment, I think.”

“Granted,” Wesson shrugged. A good half of his wine disappeared in a single, long swallow. “Doesn’t mean I can’t wish ill on their profit-minded heads.”

“Free country.” Leif was about to rise for some of the coffee he could smell, when a mug was placed before him. Unlike his own roast, this smelled of vanilla, sugar and a half-dozen other ingredients diluting its dark heart. At one side the neko’s yellow-green eyes watched. Changing his mind he accepted the mug, and nodded. “Thanks.”

Wesson picked up the conversation again. “The centaurs in Havre prepared a counter-blitz, recordings and products to release. Coordination with the other liminal species has been surprisingly easy. Would you be willing to participate as well?”

Blinking, Leif paused before drinking. “Me? How?”

“By establishing that humans can interact with liminals, of course!” Wesson spread his arms wide, as if encompassing the entire room. “ _Look_ at you! Two months ago you had no clue liminals existed, but now you are close friends with at least two, not counting those whom hid their true nature.”

Leif thought about it while sampling the coffee. It was weak, dairy product muffling the bitter flavor. It also tasted decadent, like what someone would order off the most expensive menu at a boutique specialist. He felt uncertain about that. The sugar content would’ve been enough for a plate of cookies, putting one in the mindset that they’d just consumed a milkshake with identity issues.

“Not you?” he lowered the mug to the table. In doing so he missed seeing frustrated looks firing back and forth behind his head. “Agent Wesson, human specialist. Expert. Professional. Look a lot prettier on camera too.”

Wesson gave a dry chuckle. “Appreciated, but impossible. I have to be impartial; people involved in the advertisements get paid, and that would break regs.” He leaned forward. “I do appreciate the vote of confidence, it says a lot to me that you’d be willing to make me the public face of liminal interaction here.”

“Milord,” Roanette straightened, absently handing the unfinished wine glass to a surprised elf. “It would raise your authority amongst multiple cultures if you were to be seen as a proponent of the Act.”

“She has a point,” Wesson agreed. “It would establish your place as a central authority in events, for North America in particular.”

An unpleasant sensation prickled along the back of Leif’s hands. He knew to pay attention to that sensation.

“So …” grappling with the thought took effort. “You want me to be a poster boy. In front. Publicity.”

“Exactly!” Wesson grinned, then his face fell. “Now that you mention it, that’s not really your Em-Oh, is it?”

The faint sense of irritation, rejoined with the lack of information came back full force. “Nope. We need to have a talk, by the way. Later.”

The government man’s expression gave the impression of desiring an intimate embrace with an irritated porcupine. To his credit, there was no protestation. He had a sense of duty after all, which raised him some in Leif’s eyes.

“Larsen,” Aredhel replaced the empty wineglass back on the table. She licked her lips. “Would you have an alternative? Pragmatically speaking, this place will not be unknown for long. Already your neighbors are aware of at least the centaurs. In a matter of weeks they will have access to databases with addresses too. When the minotaurs come, they’ll be very difficult to hide anyway. What is the alternative?”

A half-grin twisted the side of Leif’s mouth. He leaned back, raising his voice. “Earl!”

From the far side of the house there was a startled exclamation, followed by a feminine yelp of pain. A collection of thuds, creaking metal and the subsequent rolling sounds of wheelchair tires made Leif wonder what exactly his neighbor had been up too – but quelled the thought before it went anywhere dangerous. Knowing his luck the answer would be far too embarrassing for words.

He sent a questioning glance at Wesson, and shook his head at the knowing smirk on the latter’s face. Seconds later Earl rolled into the room, hair mussed, pushed by Alynette, whom’s blouse had somehow been fastened a touch offset.

_‘Some new fashion.’_ Leif knew he was fooling himself. But it was better to be willful in ignorance than accepting in this case.

“Hey Leif, um. Everyone.” Earl coughed in one hand. “What can I do for you?”

Alynette murmured something that made both Aredhel and Roanette laugh, but elicited a scathing look from Fanchon.

Leif, however, turned to look at Wesson. “Yeah?”

The government man studied Earl thoughtfully. “Hmmm. Potential. Definite potential. High-profile, a story we could release in sequence … we have video of it too. Realism is hard to fake.”

Earl began to look nervous. “Uh … what’s going on?”

“News went live,” Leif informed him, taking another sip of the too-sweet coffee. “G-man wants a good-looking face for ads.”

“Oh, well Aly would be a shoe-in for that,” his words drew a blush on the blonde centauride’s face. “What kinda ads are you thinking?”

Leif waved the questions back over towards the Asian agent. “Your department.”

He felt a wave of satisfaction as Wesson began his sales pitch. That was another bullet dodged. The public would eat up the story; a man besotted by someone he had seen in vague shadows, pushing himself into dangerous acts to show off, sent into pain by the performance, but impressing the woman with his bull-headed moronic behavior. _‘Oldest story in the book. Boy meets girl, girl falls for acts of machismo. Boy gets hurt, girl nurses boy to health. Classic.’_

His smirk wouldn’t leave, so he covered it with another large swallow of coffee. _‘Good plan. Great day –‘_ the flavor touched his tongue, curling it back with the sweetness. _‘Maybe if there were some better coffee ….’_


	12. Nosey Neighbor

Anticipating a refreshing night’s sleep in one’s own bed was a glorious sensation. Doing so without the screaming wind made it even better – stronger men than he had gone mad from such things. A pleasant evening alone with his books, a warm blaze in the fireplace sounded like heaven to his tired mind.

_‘On the other hand,’_ he glanced across the room to where Fanchon applied elbow grease and enthusiasm to removing dust above the antelope heads, set over six feet high on the wall. Her personal requirement for frilly clothing did nothing to help keep dust at bay, or much of anything for that matter. _‘Some went mad from loneliness. Guess that’s not gonna be a thing here. Guess it’s too late for me.’_

“Milord,” rubber-shod hooves made dull thumping noises on the floor behind Leif. “A word, if you will?”

“Hmm?” he started a little at the sudden presence. “Sure.”

Roanette fidgeted. “Perhaps … elsewhere? The barn?”

“Yeah.” A faint hissing noise of disapproval emanated from above somewhere. Leif ignored both it, and the faint shower of dust drifting into sight.

The outdoors was cold, but not frozen. Leif was glad for his heavy jacket, although curious about the extra lining that had somehow been patched over the thin portions of its interior. The cross-stitch wasn’t of his normal techniques, although beautiful in its own way. The fabric was soft as well, smoother than leather or the nylon stuff left over from that waterproof coat.

Shrugging away the question, Leif wandered outside, picking up his hat from the stand and the accompanying cane. His pain from earlier that morning was leaving, although not quite gone. A pill would solve the matter, but not until just before he slept – best to not risk addiction, no matter how minimal the potential.

The barn looked imposing against the gloomy sky, white powder ground into its weatherworn boards, graying with the passage of time while still retaining a ruddy hue from uncounted coats of paint. A brisk wind sent dust and droplets of melting snow in loose arcs beyond its asphalt tiled roof, chilling to the unprepared. But its inhabitants were more than capable of keeping themselves warm, even in the sub-arctic temperatures Montana was capable of achieving.

Leif heaved on the covering barn door, pulling it back enough so the metal gate’s bars behind were accessible, and pushed them aside as well. After a moment’s thought he pulled both wider, for the centauride’s broader frame.

“So.” He waited until she’d entered, then took a few steps deeper into the comforting shadows. Half a dozen horses whickered greetings, ears pricking forwards. “What can I do you for?”

A brief hesitation showed in Roanette’s stride, caused by what he didn’t know. “Sir. Milo – _Leif._ You … spoke to my father. Before you … searched. For me.”

“Aye,” Leif limped to the nearest pen, greeting the equine inhabitant with a caressing stroke along the soft muzzle. The dark-colored horse shoved his hand hard, making a playful nudge before demanding further attention to the jaw’s underside. “Mister Yidderman. Yah?”

Her head lowered. “Then you … know.”

He kept his gaze steady. “That your da’ wanted me to stud for a new generation of centaurs? Odd. Yah.”

For long heartbeats, the sable-haired centauride silently examined the ground under her feet. It was uncharacteristic of the woman’s effusive nature, telling in its own way.

Leif leaned against a post. His cane thunked against the wall, where it rested. “Ro’, I’m right flattered. Honest and true. But I ain’t comfortable with … studding myself out. But we’re partners, sure. I ain’t goin’ back on that.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the floor, joined by her drooping ears in the investigation of the barn’s supporting framework. One hoof pawed at the floor, further evidence of nervousness; in Leif’s experience, horses would only grow more nervous or less after starting the ground-defacement. Here it suggested a similar condition exacerbated by intelligence, one that had preceded her earlier departure. Nerves, plus high expectations of … either himself or herself? Leif was uncertain. From what behavior she’d exhibited, it was almost certain to be a case of self-blame, which he couldn’t help.

Patient, Leif waited, making his way over to the next horse whom watched his ministrations with no small amount of jealousy. Patches, further down the row, snorted an impatient demand for attention. Leif smiled but made sure to give the massive gelding before him the full measure; fair was fair after all.

“What … breed is he?” a quiet voice asked behind his back.

Leif swayed as the large head shook, throwing its mane around. “Dunno. Bit of a mutt. We named him Mongrel. Bit o’ Percheron in there. Maybe Clydesdale. Got ‘im as a yearling – thought he was older than that. Owner –“ he shook his head in disapproval. “ _Former_ owner thought so too. Gelded him. Pity. Woulda had good foals.”

He caught the jerky nodding of the centauride out of the corner of one eye. Then he reviewed the last few seconds, and winced. _‘Silence is golden. Don’t forget it.’_

Moving over to Patches he rubbed the affectionate horse’s dark mane. “How about you girl. Want a good rubdown?”

“Yes.” The word reached his ears the same time as Patches’s head-wobble shake of agreement.

Leif felt a corner of his mouth lift as an embarrassed gasp followed a moment later. He felt an urge to tease the nervous woman, but thought better of it. Given the circumstances, there’d likely be a misunderstanding involving some insane requirement for vassals in the tenth century. Instead, he resigned himself to a stoic grunt.

Patches seemed to agree. A soft nudge from the dark horse’s nose prodded him towards the curry-comb. He smiled. Sometimes that horse was too smart for her own good.

“That is … if you would not mind ….” A soft voice continued after his lack of response.

Before he could think of an answer, the crunch of tires on gravel interrupted. Gratitude overwhelmed his heart before logic dug in its claws.

Leif frowned. No one was expected that day. Maybe a neighbor was stopping by …? But then there would be some trouble, possibly. No one was supposed to know about the whole Liminal setup, but it wouldn’t be surprising in the least if multiple neighbors already knew.

“Liminals?” he asked. If she was to be a full partner, then her input would need to be consulted.

Roanette pursed her lips, and hook her head. Sable hear lashed across her shoulders. “No one is scheduled for today. A new herd is arriving tomorrow, but they will be landing a few dozen members.”

The sound of crunching gravel shuddered into the barn’s open windows, lighter than a grain truck, a heavy sedan or light suburban utility vehicle. An engine went into idling, and creaking of car door sounded, then slammed. Faint crunches from booted feet became audible, then faded from hearing.

“Stay here,” Leif gave Patches an apologetic rub. “Probably nothing.”

Roanette backed away from the main door, eyes wide. The foreign-make carbine in her hands – where had _that_ come from? – appeared small, but he knew it was just an illusion. “Sire.”

“Don’t need to cover me,” a stray thought crossed his mind. Of centaurs chasing down a vehicle and passengers shooting at the monsters outside. An abrupt change of heart knocked sense back into his brain. “Wait. Yeah. If it goes pear shaped, I’m runnin’ here. Kay?”

A steady gaze met his own, no sign of apprehension evident. Roanette checked the safety on her weapon, working the lever-action just enough to see the brass casing resting inside. “You are safe with me, sire.”

“Leif. Just Leif. Or Larsen if you have to,” he grumbled. After this long the irritation was still strong, but this was no time for such a battle.

He took a moment to stretch, finding his balance. The cane helped, lending stability through its physical presence, and the connection he could almost feel to the original wielder. Grandpa Larsen had been a tall man with large hands – the cane’s worn sections carried that familiarity. It was as if the old maple wood were a conduit to the past, with his grandfather reaching back to clasp the hand clutching the handle.

A voice bellowed from outside. “Larsen!”

Roanette sashayed to one side, carbine poised as dogs began barking. She lowered the muzzle as Leif gestured, stepping back to let him exit. A murmured _good luck_ ghosted to his ears on warm air, then evaporated.

Leif strode out of the barn, pausing to shut the wooden door – but not quite all the way – leaving the metal bars well open behind the wooden covering, just in case. Then he focused on the drive.

A beat-up old Chevrolet pickup sat near the front of the ranch house. Its once-blue sides had faded under dust and time to a rusted gray, breaking down to where actual rust flaked away above the wheel wells. But the windshields were in good condition, and he could tell by the rumbling engine that the owner took good care of what rested under the hood. It had the sound of well-oiled machinery, humming in perfect harmony.

“Larsen!” the hoarse bellow of an older man made its presence known again.

“Olsen.” Leif barked in return, loud enough to be heard over the truck’s rumble.

The older man’s head snapped up to glare. He was indeed much older than Leif, as the white hair with faint hints of brown around the temples testified. While not _fat_ , the older man could not be described as _thin_ either. At best he was heavyset, given a definite paunch and calloused hands. A long mustache drooped over his upper lip, as aged as the rest of his hoary head.

“Larsen.” The man wasted no time. “Where’s Hilda?”

“Brunhilda?” Leif stopped within speaking distance. “She missin’?”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Funny things goin’ on around here. Shootin’ in the night when good folks should be sleepin’, all that heavy construction. I can see that city you got going up from the hills. I know your folks ain’t here no more, but they’d be ashamed if they knew you was doing this tomfoolery.”

Leif took no offense. He’d long known the older man’s habits.

“Then my baby girl’s gone missin’, I knew where to look first.” The stone gray eyes glared again. “So tell me Larsen. Where’s Hilda.”

“Don’t right know,” he relaxed. “Last I saw she was with some guys I didn’t much like the look of.”

The older man’s eyes turned murderous. “Where.”

Leif jerked his thumb over the distant plains. “Yonder Zakapenko’s old place. Got picked up by the cops, I reckon.”

Olsen’s face settled from grim to an expression bulldogs across the globe would’ve devoted half their lifespans to emulate. “What. The. _Heck._ ”

Planting the cane firmly in front, leaning both hands on its polished wood, Leif refused to back down. “Yeah. Same place _I got shot._ The stick ain’t just fashion.”

Silence grew between the two, an entire conversation communicated through body language. Tiny motions from Olsen’s eyes flicked between the cane and Leif’s posture, checking for truth. A good cattleman understood; bovines disguised injuries as a matter of course, an ancestry that survived by appearing healthy even if not. His eyes darted to the footprints left in the soft dust, noting the shorter stride and circular impact point from the cane, then back to how Leif leaned his weight on the cane.

Leif let the other man examine him, lifting one shoulder in an expression of weary impotence. _‘Let ‘im look. Nothin’ I can do about it.’_

“Don’t care.” Olsen decided. “Just have ‘em send Hilda out and I’ll go.”

Leif gave a slow shake. “No can do. Got caught runnin’ people.”

The older man stopped dead – he was too much of an experienced horse trader to betray anything, but the pause was enough of a warning.

“Traffickin’?” the voice was casual, a study of mild concern and paternal interest. “What she getting’ mixed up in now.”

Leif shifted the cane to another position, leaning as little of his weight as possible. “You know what. Walk away, Olsen. I’m givin’ you one chance to walk away.”

Indecision wound its way across the man’s face. Anger, mixed with what could very well have been worry. It was like tectonic shifts, a settling of opinion between multiple possible angles.

_‘Can’t trust an Olsen. Jim’s serving time down in Texas. Abigail’s eating Jell-O through a straw for the past two years. Mrs. Olsen didn’t do squat when the doc ….’_ Leif pushed the thought away. Some things didn’t bear repeating, even in thought. Out of curiosity he eyed the older man’s bulky coat. It held too much mass and patches to show any lethal secrets.

“Boy.” Olsen’s figure moved closer, into Leif’s personal space. His expression mirrored the action, glowering anger. Even his voice dipped into gravel-filled realms. “You git my daughter and get her fast.”

With a shrug, Leif headed for the house. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you. Come on.”

The older man kept on his heels, crowding him until two black-and-white forms appeared, ears back and teeth bared. Dogs well-trained for herding animals ten times their own mass thought little of a puny bipedal figure with blunt teeth and no claws. Somehow, that attitude penetrated even an unthinking man’s hindbrain, giving Leif a little more room.

The ranch house back door creaked open. Stepping in first, Leif cast a quick glance around. Neither neko nor elves were in sight. Relieving in one way, concerning in another. For now he ignored it, and stumped to the side of the entry. Stairs lead down into the depths, rough-hewn cinderblocks providing the far wall as solid as the day they’d been laid. There was no bannister, no handrail. When the place had been built there’d been thoughts in that line, but no one had ever actually done it.

“Your daughter, Brunhilda?” he pitched his voice a little louder than normal, making a snap judgement. “The one driving that trailer?”

The older man pushed past, standing parallel next to the stairs. Deep in the cellar light was visible, casting shadows on the stairs; strangely moving shadows. “Don’t know what that girl was doin’. Don’t care either. I know my rights.”

“Yah.” Leif’s eyes rose, looking through the entry door to spot an old rifle hanging on a plaque over the fireplace. “Caught her trespassin on my land. Smuggling _people_ , Olsen. _People._ Might look off a bit, but that don’t matter none. You know why she’s caught.”

“She’ll answer t’the law,” Olsen grunted. His foot set down on the first step. “But you know what’ll happen. They ain’t human. No court’ll try anyone ifn’ it happened before the whole thing went public. Least of all a girl caught up with a bad crowd.”

Leif nodded at the darkness below, reaching over to flip the closest in a bank of switches. A dim illumination burned to life, one of the newer fluorescent lights that saved power and generated little heat yet took forever to reach full potency. “You’ll find what you’re looking for down there then.”

Living in the rural areas raised few fools. Olsen took a step back. “Why don’t you go get her then?”

“Yeah?” Leif rapped his cane against the floor. “Ain’t feelin’ too quick these days. Or charitable.”

Another growl and suspicious glare later, and the older man thudded down the stairs. Footsteps on a loose board, then on solid stone and concrete. Then noises began to change, sliding leather on smooth-packed ground, and the delighted sound of a predator spotting her prey.

“Larsen you bastard! –”

Taking an almost ostentatious care of his injured leg, the rancher made his way up the single step from the entry into the kitchen proper. A particularly loud shriek made him wince. With gentleness evident, he eased the door barring the entry room from the rest of the house shut. One long crack wound through the tri-pane glass running through the top half of the door, proof of less care in the past. Muffled shouting made tinny echoes through the radiator vents along the floor. He ignored it.

Minutes later, Aredhel and the neko, Fanchon, found him in the living room, staring at the old rifle hanging on the wall. They waited several respectful heartbeats in vain.

Behind his back, the two exchanged looks. It was apparent some sort of struggle was ongoing, the newcomer making a discreet step back, while begging with large, limpid eyes. The elf’s angular eyebrows narrowed, then lifted, one ear twitching in agitation.

The neko gave a tiny headshake, folding her arms. A silent groan of exasperation from her counterpart made the woman’s cat-ears lift upwards, and a small grin peek out.

“Larsen?” Aredhel ventured at last.

“Mm?” he didn’t move, eyes caressing the worn, deadly lines of the ancient weapon.

“Wesson is here. For Mister Olsen.”

Leif took a breath. “Let ‘im know the bastard’s down in the cellar. If he can convince the snake ladies, he can have ‘im.”

“Sir.” Aredhel departed immediately in a rush of tapping shoes.

Fanchon, however, stepped closer, waiting. Before her the rancher continued examining the old weapon, studying its scarred lines. She cleared her throat. “ _Monsieur_?”

Another handful of heartbeats passed. “Yah.”

“I was wondering about this, ah, weapon. It is … old. A trophy, perhaps?”

“Kinda.” Leif traced the barrel’s length with a hand brushing the box’s surface. The barrel’s end bent just a hair, a dent almost buffed out but still visible. Deep marks scored the stock, polished into the wood. “Great-great-uncle Elver’s rifle. Springfield 1861. Fifty-eight cal, I reckon. Back in eighteen sixty two – sixty three.”

The cat-woman’s ears flicked towards the floor where outraged bellows became cries of pain, then merged into angry shouting once more. A somewhat more cultured voice joined the fray, quieting things for the moment. “It seems important, sir.”

“Probably just me.” Leif sighed, and moved away. “Great-Uncle Elver was a Union boy. Lost an arm and a leg at Vicksburg under General Grant. Awful proud o’ that man, he was.”

The rancher kept moving until in the kitchen once more. He gave a final glance back at the rifle then down at the entry, where Wesson and a few humans were dragging the older man, looking worse for the wear. A grim smile crossed Leif’s face, a light of unholy glee dancing where the neko could not see. “Family thing. Never did like slavers.”

* * *

After a time, Wesson came back, nodding a greeting to Roanette as she departed. His normally dapper appearance was disheveled, perfect shoes scuffed with what looked like a large bootprint on one, and what could’ve passed for tire treads on the other. He collapsed on a large rocking chair, falling limp as his thin frame hit the cushions.

“Rough day?” Leif rose, intending to offer his guest hospitality. The neko darted past, already placing a tall glass of water next to the government man’s hand.

“You could say that,” Wesson seized the water glass, gulping at its contents. He stopped after two thirds, and leveled a glare. “You tossed him to the lamia. Deliberately.”

Leif’s eyebrows rose. “Did I? Well, paint me red and call me a pickup. Guess I must’ve tied him up and threw him to the wolves, eh?”

“Don’t get sarcastic with me, Larsen.” Wesson leaned his head back with a groan. “I had to make nice with the neko last week. Fire their handler. Get a _new_ handler for said neko. Handle everything myself while you rambled around with that big truck thing.”

_‘Combine.’_ Leif corrected in his head. _‘International, model 1480.’_

“Then I had to focus on all that mess with the liminal trafficking, get the centaurs to back off their traditional celebration, find _you_ during a blizzard after finding _Roanette_ in the same blizzard!” he broke off to pour the rest of the liquid down his throat in a single pull. “And then I find out that one of the people I’m trying to arrest found you, and you threw him to the very same people he was trading!”

Leif gave him a look of sympathy. At least, he _hoped_ it was sympathetic – it was hard to do with the government man. “Been a while since I had English. But I think that’s rightly called _irony_.”

“Yeah.” Wesson held out his glass, receiving a refilled version in a moment. He peered into its depths mournfully, as if wishing for something stronger. “Can’t disagree with that.”

A long sigh eased its way from Leif’s chest. It had been a long morning, and afternoon for that matter. It felt closer to evening than it really was; even the skies were dark.

_‘Dark skies? It was sunny just ten minutes ago.’_ He got up for a better view.

Out to the west he could see clouds, not the thunderous storm clouds or heavy snow-bringing monstrosities, but a warning all the same. His barometer, resting next to the front door, hanging off the wall, had a low pressure indication. A storm was brewing, but nothing as bad as earlier that week. Perhaps some rain, mixed with snow? Crops were in, livestock were under shelter.

“See something?” Wesson’s expression was serious.

He shrugged. “Rain soon.”

The Asian government man groaned. “Not again. Please tell me it’s not another ice storm.”

“Yah.” Leif considered his options, and started walking again. Behind he heard a heartfelt sigh as the other man heaved himself to his feet. Leather shoes clicked against the floor behind him.

“Some outstanding business has to be taken care of, I’m afraid. One of the agreements I made with the Neko delegation was to talk to you about avoiding the same mistake they made before. Which, I admit, was my fault in part. Mostly Harley’s fault though, just to be precise.”

Leif took a careful step down into the den. To his knowledge the federal operative hadn’t seen the room yet, although the inexplicable movements of furniture after their first meeting suggested outsider’s presence. To date the man maintained there were no spy toys hidden in the house – which he now realized did not include equipment _outside_ the house. Or in the barn. Or on a satellite looking down. _‘Or whatever gadgetry those weird boys got to make life difficult for common folk.’_

He settled on a chair, leaning back into its hard-backed luxuriousness. Its support meant everything to a tired spine, high enough for his shoulders and head to lean upon, and arms that extended at just the right height. A smile of pure bliss grew on his face.

“For future reference,” Wesson sat down on a chair of similar manufacture, “Nekos can give you an awful scratch. Good Lord this’s comfortable.”

“Mhm.” Leif murmured. His eyes were already drifting shut.

Wesson cleared his throat, loud enough to gain attention. “As I was saying, the Neko delegation offers a formal apology. They hope the presence of an elite combat unit helps convey the seriousness of their intentions, and request you overlook their … ah … indiscretion.”

“Done.” Leif waved a lazy hand. How could one remain angry with an entire race? A comfortable chair resolved many difficulties.

“Due to the depth of – wait. What?” the Federal man paused. “That’s it?”

Leif grunted.

“You put me through hell just because you – oh. _Oh._ ” A look of realization crossed the agent’s face. “You clever, cunning little sneak.”

_‘Now what?’_ Leif rolled his eyeballs under closed lids.

“Alright, have it your way. I’ll stay quiet.”

_‘Finally.’_

“Next time MON needs a negotiator though, I’m recommending they contact you first.” Wesson went on, oblivious to the relaxing man’s exasperation. “Anyone that can play three civilizations off each other just to –“

_‘Shut up,’_ Leif’s care for the other man’s verbosity dipped another notch as he prattled on. Something about obtaining a ‘hot piece of tail’ and ‘building a harem’ mixed with terms that made no sense. _‘Just treating people right. Harems are nothing but trouble. Marriage is all well and good, but a pain. Just a girlfriend is trouble, why would anyone want to get mixed up in that monkey business?’_

Wesson finally finished up by rising. “Thank you for your time, Mister Larsen. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know. The new handler for the Neko will present himself tomorrow at three o’clock, conditions permitting.”

Leif nodded. “You takin’ the snake ladies with you?”

Wesson paused, then nodded. “That’s a good idea, later this week perhaps. There’s a villa being built for their use. The crew is being paid triple overtime as it is, might as well get them to hurry up the Snake Pit.”

A raised eyebrow received no results, forcing Leif to speak. “The what now?”

“Ah,” the agent looked embarrassed. “Snake Pit. It’s a nickname the boys came up with for the lamias. Not sure if it’s derogatory, but … that’s for lawyers to decide. Praise be that’s going to be a whole other can of worms I _don’t_ have to sort.”

“Mm.” Leif eased back. “’kay then.”

The agent looked a touch surprised. “That’s … it? Of course it is. You’re _you_. As curious as a turtle.” He shifted to glare. “Stop smirking. That’s not a compliment.”

He tried to change expressions. Based on the government man’s mulish mien, it didn’t succeed. The smaller man took his leave without waiting for Leif to get up – perhaps because of the attentive neko that appeared out of nowhere to shadow the man’s exit.

Silence reigned for the next half hour, where Leif did his best to relax in a chair, knowing there were other people in his home. After the first fifteen minutes of quiet noises clinking from the kitchen, or making soft sounds on hardwood floors, it began to create a susurration he could withstand.

A quarter hour after that, and the low echoes of other people started to soothe. He felt his shoulders relax into the chair, its firm hardwood support accepting the burden he gave. Warm sunshine out the window belied the frigid temperatures so close beforehand, turning the last patches of snow into puddles. Only drifts thrown up by plows remained, and a few patches deep in the outbuilding shadows.

Breathing deep, he settled down a little more deeply into his chair. There were problems everywhere, but the sun shoe warm on his legs, and the chair’s rocking felt soothing, as if immune to external influences. Hard edges had been worn down by careful carpentry and time, generations of little hands running over its smoothness. He could remember his father sitting in the chair, a bit shorter and stockier but nonetheless a steady presence.

His motions grew slower and slower, eyelids drifting shut. In moments the tired rancher succumbed to exhaustion. Asleep for the first time while knowing others were in his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My Beta has returned from Beyond! Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year!


	13. Sleepiness and Conversations

He awoke without moving, a trick one could learn if they bothered to spend the time. Without opening his eyes Leif listened, extending his awareness beyond the fuzziness still prevalent in his mind. The muzzy sensation cleared as he heard quiet conversation – then noticed a warmth covering himself.

Deciding it was safe, he continued opening his eyes, and discovered one of the blankets from the closet tucked around his form. Thunder boomed outside, an oddity given the time of year.

Rising, Leif folded the blanket over an arm, halving the length again and again to set the small square down. Agitated murmurs were coming from the kitchen, along with a very quiet sound of metal touching metal, as if one were trying to avoid making noise whilst handling objects that opposed such a view with their very nature. He’d done it enough times himself in his youth – not that such a time was too far before. He wasn’t going gray yet, at least. Ranchers always went gray young.

_‘Getting vain,’_ his subconscious mocked. _‘Those ladies have put you through enough stress to drive a saint to swear.’_

Shaking off the lazy thinking, Leif took a step – then looked down. Socks were a standard garb in the house. Boots were removed at the door, or worn only on the hard surfaces, easy to clean. The den was such a place, a combination family room, meeting room and trophy display center – deer head were poised on walls, memories of past hunts and successful tutelage. But the floor was cool underfoot, shifting to cold where the fabric had worn through. But that wasn’t the point.

He’d gone to sleep wearing boots. Hadn’t he?

That thought too was shelved. This didn’t matter. Finding out what was going on, did. It had been _years_ since he’d awakened to the sound of voices in his own home, after dark.

Socks made for quiet movements, a benefit he decided. Ghosting through the halls brought memories back, of evading well-intentioned parental guidance. A half-smile came to his face, then banished as realization struck a coward’s blow. _‘I’m looking after these people. I’m the parent …?’_

That was a disturbing thought.

Before the process could wind its way through his brain further, the quiet of the night interrupted. The velvet blackness, so different from the eye-searing glare in the supposed ‘civilized’ regions. Some places even dedicated their blinding illumination to visual displays, erasing the trillions of stars visible from the sky. ‘ _Stars exist outside planetariums. Just one step on the porch and you can see the Andromeda galaxy, what’s it called? Something thirty something? Finnish machine-pistol thirty – no. Too much of that on the mind. Nothing’s going to happen. I’m safe here. No one would come out and … and …._

“Mi- milord?”

“Larsen?”

“Sir?”

Leif realized his feet hadn’t stopped moving, carrying him in eyeshot of the kitchen. One pair of wide eyes looked at him, as if perceiving some apparition, while the other two pairs had an exasperated attitude.

“I’ll be going!” Fanchon squeaked. Her odd choice in attire was gone, replaced by a far more sensible pair of jeans and stretchy, tight-fighting, t-shirt. “Sorry!”

Leif cast a glance at the clock, noting the temporal position. He shrugged. “Only going on nine. Take your time, miss.”

The neko edged towards the doorway. “That’s all right, I – I need to go.”

Faint movement caught his attention, like the whiplash motion of a rattlesnake gliding through the underbrush. All his peripheral vision caught was some exchange between Aredhel and Roanette, and the centauride looking exasperated.

“Fanchon, it is fine. Please stay.” Roanette gave Leif a look, begging him to follow along.

He considered objecting. There were reasons to do so – this was _his_ home after all, had that not been clear? Invitations were made by Leif and Leif alone. Which might have been the centauride’s point.

Leif made a snap decision, nodding at Roanette, then at Fanchon. “Feel free. Night’s young.”

Turning his back on the nervous cat-woman he caught another silent exchange, and ignored it. If the two wanted to keep secrets, they could keep them. Plotting behind someone’s back wasn’t their way, or so it seemed so far. Trustworthy they had been proven so far, and so he’d treat them until proven otherwise. _‘Maybe I’m wrong, but …maybe not.’_

He gave the matter a thought, and hesitated just a moment longer. “I’ll be out late. Make yourselves at home.”

Not waiting for a response, and feeling a touch self-conscious, Leif pulled a heavy jacket from the hook by the back door and exited the ranch house. He hesitated to relish the sensation of crisp October evening. As expected, the stars hung low in brilliant points – except for over Havre, the centaur settlement. From that direction Leif could hear heavy machinery working away, intense lighting diffusing into a blur that dulled the sky.

Enjoyment faded to horror. He looked up where once there’d been millions of stars. Now only the strongest remained visible while those of a more mediocre luminosity fought through the glare. But the greatest terror remained: the multitude of lesser lights had vanished.

_‘What have I done?’_ dismay ran through his head. Those stars, landmarks for over two decades, gone. _‘Did I make a mistake?’_

He looked the other direction, feeling a faint tremor of relief at the velvet blackness still intact. _‘At least something’s going right. Don’t know what I’d do if everything went … urban.’_

Hearing the house’s back door open, Leif moved on, angling his steps to keep the most obstructions between the doors line-of-sight and himself. This put him in a path to the barn once more, and the welcoming committee of its equine inhabitants.

Most were content to continue slumbering, standing in place. Two were stretched out on the straw, suggesting they felt utter safety. It brought a smile to his face, their complete trust. It took time, time invested in maintaining their welfare, seeing to feeding and watering. Time that could’ve been spent elsewhere, repairing machines or researching new crops. A new seed had been released for the colder climates, reported to give better yields and withstand colder temperatures – but there were always drawbacks.

Leif slid the barn door shut, glad for the oiled wheels suspending its doughty weight. The horses stirred as he approached, his familiar smell lulling them back to slumber. Trying to deaden his footsteps was counterproductive – predators sneaked, not friends.

Reaching the ladder, he began to climb. The injury made lifting his left thigh an ordeal, but he made it. Up in the haymow rested his destination: a small set of barriers, made for the times that every practitioner of animal husbandry knew would occur. Sometimes a rancher needed to stay with his charges, whether it was due to foaling or sickness, and a few comforts went a long ways.

Old tarps, cracked with age, fractured at a touch. Flakes of dust peeled off, encrusted with time and constant exposure.

A bed, more of an advanced cot than true bed, revealed itself under the coverings. There was no mattress – anything so civilized as _bedding_ would’ve become rife with mice and other vermin. But there was a sturdy canvas covering, which could be stuffed with straw. Heavy wool blankets, sealed in vacuum-tight bags provided the warmth that would be needed, and a decrepit light switch kindled a dim lightbulb into being.

Using fresh straw was a must. It smelled sweet, and carried no dust. Too, the older straw could poke like a knife, stabbing through fabric as if a bed of nails were its intended form. Leif countered that with a thick layer of tarp, doubled over inside the bag, and shoved more straw inside. Ten minutes of work forced the bag’s edges into a plump shape, rustling against plasticized surfaces.

Leif flopped the vaguely oblong thing onto the wooden frame, shoving it into place. His leg twinged at the effort, but less than it had before. _‘Good. Hate being laid up.’_

Maybe that was why he got along so well with horses. Immobility was terrifying.

A faint whickering floated up to his ears, the sound of Morgan the quarter horse. _‘Still don’t know why Earl gave it such a doggone stupid name. A quarter horse, named Morgan.’_ A few thoughts followed that one. _‘Still, better than the dang stupid names at the racetrack.’_

The barn itself was pleasant, the heat from so many warm bodies raising its temperature to comfortable levels. Ventilation, key for any animal-storing building, kept fresh air moving through. In the rafters a pair of owls were pausing in their routine nocturnal hunt, large eyes peering down at the unexpected visitor.

_‘Sorry,’_ he sent an apologetic thought up at the pair. _‘Know you just want to be left alone.’_

A mental checklist ticked through his brain during the bedtime preparations. _‘Horses fed. Dogs fed. Guests know their way around – should’ve left a note? Nah, they’re big girls.’_ The multi-hundred pound centauride’s mass flickered through his mind’s eye. _‘Yeah. They’re_ adults _… pretty sure. Even if they’re teenager something, ‘Red looks like one anyway.’_

Keeping his thoughts off the _very_ adult appearances of his guests, Leif sat down to take off his boots. A problem made itself evident very soon. It was a small one, as problems went, but still an issue.

The boots chosen at random were solid, tall constructs of thick leather and canvas. They were perfect for fall weather; warm, sturdy, waterproof to a certain degree. But what they _weren’t_ was flexible.

He tried reaching down to undo the laces. Fingertips brushed against the coarse fabric, until a stabbing pain forced him back. A silenced hiss almost betrayed the injury, but Leif couldn’t stop himself from clapping a hand upon the affected limb, over the stitches.

Trying again, slower this time, he reached for his feet. Once again the pain grew too much, forcing him back to a seated position.

“Crap.”

Going back to the house was out of the question – revealing weakness wasn’t allowed. It had nothing to do with farm management, the individuals calling the place home, or some international cooperative effort. Showing injury _wasn’t_ allowed. Perhaps there was more in common with horses than he’d thought.

Closing his eyes, Leif counted backwards from ten. Frustration was temporary, blood pressure was for the rest of your life. Or so Doc Simmons kept saying.

_‘Maybe I shouldn’t take a horse doctor’s advice for myself?’_ he glanced down at the equines resting below. _‘Eh. Think about it later.’_

Giving up for the moment, Leif brushed off the worst bits of debris from his clothing, tossing schnitzels of dried hay to the floor. Here in the loft it was almost too warm, the combined heat from over half a dozen horses rising to collect where it could escape no further. It felt of comfort, of years past when it was his turn to watch gravid livestock.

For a moment, memories of the past swept before his eyes.

_Sturdy lanterns, only one at a time to extend battery life, sat on the old orange crate. Alfalfa’s sweet scent rested heavy in the air, bales of the stuff piled in readiness – not too much, for fear of causing stomach problems, but not too little either. A good book sat on the crate, keeping a block of wood company._

_Tiny wood shavings curled into piles on the floor, unending hours of patient labor. Keen-edged tools glittered in the light, sharp enough to glide over hickory or slice divots in soft silver maple. This was his hobby, his passion. While nature took its course in the nearby pen under his watchful eye, nature reshaped under his hands._

_The first work had been a wooden chain. Simple, time consuming, educational. The biggest trick was learning how to separate the links. But it worked, a chain made from wood, no glue, no fixatives._

_His second was a model horse – which turned out horrible. Too much, too soon, too fast. The rump had extended too far over the hindquarters, and the tail looked like a series of toothpicks glued together. But the mane … that had looked perfect. Curling locks flowing over the broad back, tumbling down. A pity the rest of the head resembled a carrot with the mumps, but it was what it was._

_Soon the family learned how well he could be alone, how tasks requiring focus during solitude were safe in Leif’s hands. All farmers were good at that, but some were just a little better at it than others. It was a life he enjoyed._

Leif jerked, feeling the straw mattress bump against the back of his calves. Faint afterimages blinked out of existence, even a faint odor of the mint tea he’d once kept on the barn’s pot-belly stove fading from memory.

_‘Hah. How long has that been gone?’_ he didn’t look at the stove’s former position. A square hole in the roof, covered by a chunk of shingle, matched four indentations in the floor. _‘Only a few years ago. Kept meaning to get another, but they’re hard to find now. Should do some research over winter, see what I can find.’_

The straw poked, even through the canvas barrier, but nothing could stop a good night’s sleep. _‘Getting soft. Should try to toughen up a bit … but I don’t really want to ….’_

Old age. It was catching up to him. While bad, it was preferable to the alternative sin feared by country folk across the globe: laziness.

* * *

Less than five hundred feet away, the farmhouse sat warm and inviting. Lamplight spilled between thick curtains, etching sharp lines along the muddy ground. Each blade of grass stood out in bold relief under the quiet brilliance. Dead leaves lay where the wind had shoved their dry shapes, tangled amongst the turf. In time they’d be gathered once more by the capricious arms of neighboring breezes, but for now they lay in silence while heavy discussions took place within the ranch house.

Centaurs took pride in their appearance. Whether it was a warrior’s braids made more complex through battle and marriage – not necessarily two different events – or the diplomat’s glowing complexion, their efforts in maintaining high standards were legendary. Weaving skills had once played a role until the days of industrial machinery made the exercise unprofitable. But at one point the fine woven clothes made by a dutiful centauride bride were considered equal to the silken garments created by the spider-folk.

It could be wondered then, why Roanette Yidderman, one of the three most poised of Chiron Caleb Yidderman’s daughters, wore such a plaid flannel shirt. Its cuffs were frayed, and the pockets bore tiny holes in the seams, not to mention the strained buttons that struggled to contain her figure. Yet she bore it with smug pride, rolling up the cuffs to reveal powerful forearms.

Aredhel sat at one side, sipping from a mug. “I believe it’s safe to assume Larsen will not be returning tonight.”

“Agreed,” the centauride gave a glum nod. “He’s not going out to The Place though, I may affirm.”

“Truth.” Aredhel lifted the mug once more, keen eyes peering through the steam to pin the neko as she almost succeeded in sidling away. “Fanchon. Sit.”

A faint thump announced her obedience, along with a faint hiss of irritation. “You are not the Mistress, you know.”

“ _Yet,”_ the elf corrected. “Larsen gave you permission to stay, did he not? And you will abandon his invitation so soon?”

A faint bristling look could be seen around the cat woman’s fur, rising and falling under the sweatshirt. “ _Dames,_ first time we did meet, he did not like. We –“

“Are forgiven.” Roanette inserted gently. She tugged the flannel shirt down, forcing the topmost button to relinquish its tenuous grip on reality, widening the V-neck aspect. Knife-fast reflexes caught the errant object. “Lor – Leif is a kind man. He was surprised and badly shaken, I think. The world of liminals is very new to him.”

“Och, ya.” Aredhel’s accent fell into a guttural tone. “ _Mutter_ sent updates, through the new tower. There are riots in France, and half the Middle East is trying to set up a _Fatwa._ ”

Fanchon blanched. “But- but- that’s _genocide!_ ”

“Has it been not used against humans for centuries? It is politics,” the elf shrugged. “Negotiation methodology is different there. Didn’t you visit while you were in France?”

The neko pursed her lips. “I did. Dubai, Cairo, Tehran and Riyadh.”

“I assume you worked at the hotels, but how much did you do outside? Or did you rely on the locals to do the footwork?” Aredhel pressed.

A faint snarl curled Fanchon’s upper lip, revealing teeth humans would never grow naturally. It vanished as soon as it appeared, lost under an ocean of control. “You _voyage_ wherever you wish. You can just cover up your ears with a _chapeau_ , or hair. Nekos cannot do that.”

“Could you not wear local clothing? I believe head coverings are traditional garb in the Middle East …?” Roanette looked interested.

“Not long,” Fanchon reached up, stroking the edge of one triangular ear tip. “Our ears are very … how do you say? _Délicat_. _En plus aussi_ , how could we hear if they were covered? Everything is muffled – I tried. It threw me off balance, everyone had to shout at me, and after ten minutes, it _hurt._ ”

“Oh.” Aredhel frowned. “I did not think of that – ear placement.”

“A true detriment in some places,” Roanette agreed. Her own long ears twitched. “But I do sometimes envy your size. Centaurs are not easy to mistake for say, cosplayers.”

Both the elf and the neko laughed. “That is the common thought, is it not?” Aredhel’s smile. “In truth, how many of such ilk are there, even in a country so decadent as the United States? Less than a million, of a population near three hundred and thirty million? No. Furred paws and long ears are not easy to hide.”

“But you _can_ ,” the centauride grumped. A long-fingered hand clasped the tea cup. “I need to ride in a van, or use drones. There are no cute pieces of headwear or a few straps that can hide all of _me._ ”

This statement caused a definite silence as the other two women evaluated their companion’s mass. Sharp glances traded information, lightning fast conversations taking place through the stillness. But the two seemed to agree, nodding assent.

“ _Oui_ ,” Fanchon admitted. “You, as the Westerners say, have us there.”

A sad smile crossed Roanette’s face. Then it lit up, contrary to its prior expression. “There’s a pie cooling, I’ll get us a few slices. This conversation needs pie.”

Aredhel lurched out of the way as the centauride rose from the extended cushion, moving with surprising ease. “You’re very familiar with this house, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” the dark-haired centaur called over her shoulder. “It’s the first human house I’ve spent any amount of time in. There’s so much space, plenty for a large family.” Her voice faltered, the slower swishing of her tail emphasizing the changed tone. “Leif does not speak of it very often. I believe he is lonely.”

“Pft. If only such were the truth.” Aredhel’s cheeks puffed out an exasperated breath. “Leif Larsen is the single most stubborn, bullheaded, independent human male I’ve ever met.”

Fanchon tucked both feet under herself, leaning on the table with both elbows. “How do you mean?”

“You read the reports, correct?” Aredhel waited until the neko nodded. “They do not speak half the truth. Larsen is clever, and happy to be alone. Any other male would leap at the chance for the attentions of women half as beautiful as we, but he treats us as if our presence is a necessary chore.”

The cat woman gave a timid shrug. “It is not so surprising, here in America. In France, we were more businesslike about such things. Coming to arrangements did not take so long, but then it is a different culture, as you said.”

Roanette backed into view, wheeling around to show a large pie, surrounded by a dish of ice cream and slices of cheese. “I was not certain which you would prefer, Leif has appreciated both, but ….”

“Cheese and, is this apple pie?” Fanchon’s delicate nose winkled over the pastry.

Aredhel groaned. “Centaurs are obsessed with apples. Or carrots. I believed it a stereotype, until I met the Queen of apple greed.” Her voice sank, soft as a light breeze. “She’s sharing it with you, that’s a mark of respect you know.”

“Of course it is,” Roanette’s long ears swiveled as if in amused disapproval. “Miss Kissasen, I mean, _Fanchon_. You are here. Were circumstances otherwise, I would assume your position in the connubial arrangement, in the matrimonial sense, assured.”

The sound of forks stopped. Aredhel looked up, frowning. “You don’t believe he will … how do the young people say it, take the harem route?”

Roanette shook her head. “The culture in this country is opposed to such a thing in the main. There are good reasons for it, although in the future it may change. Leif is very traditional – he attends church as often as he can, pays his bills on time, and works hard that he may not fall into debt. It is a large portion of why his land is so profitable, and why the Program desired to work with him.” Her voice sank, as her shoulder slumped. “The qualities for good judgement and care are the same qualities that prevent him from accepting all of us in the way we may wish. It is his culture yes, but it is also _him._ ”

Aredhel frowned. “There is still a good chance he _will_. But that is not an issue for now. We need to discuss the broader sense. Elves have moved in, and established a base within Havre. Our Embassy is ready for deployment in two weeks.”

“ _Bien_. Good.” Fanchon leaned back into the chair, curling in a way few human spines could withstand. “The Neko are established as well. Our ambassador will wish to give a token of thanks for your assistance, but we can have a festival soon enough.”

“Festival?” Raonette’s ears stood straight up. “That is a good idea. Thanksgiving is coming soon here, late November I believe. It is a popular time for harvest celebrations.”

Three pairs of eyes exchanged significant looks. Aredhel spoke for them. “I’ll make a few calls.”

Roanette smiled. “I’ll arrange a place in the gymnasium, and tell my father. Fanchon, can you look into decorations too?”

Triangular ears at full attention, the cat woman nodded. “There are local customs we should investigate as well. _Carry in’s_ , they are called?”

“ _Potluck_ ,” Roanette corrected. “It’s a term found more in the western side of the continent. Like _soda_ , instead of _pop._ Imagine, so many dialects? It is no wonder their universities have so many English majors. It takes an army to decide what is spoken here.”

“Um,” Aredhel paused. “ _Nein._ I don’t think it works quite like that ….”

Laughter rippled around the table, joined in by the elf as she caught on to the centauride’s smirk. “Right. Fine, have it your way. By the by,” her expression turned innocent. “Did you see the recording I saved? The one with Larsen screaming at the cattle?”

Confused headshakes answered her. Aredhel focused on Roanette, still smiling. “Are you sure? I remember watching it, the part where Larsen is riding a horse and _yells_ at a stampede? And it _listens?_ It was rather exciting, wouldn’t you say?”

Roanette blushed. “Well, it does have its points, I would say.”

“Exactly. Now, not to change the subject, but I’ve noticed a few articles of Leif’s clothing to be missing. Would you happen to be interested in perhaps finding a copy of that video, in exchange for … shall we call it re-routed, partially used apparel?”

Another burst of laughter, started by Fanchon this time circled the table. The room seemed to glow at its presence, a warm color on the old, polished surfaces. It had been many years since such a gathering had graced its halls. Some things were never forgotten, and the entire house seemed to grow brighter as the night wore on.

* * *

Out in the barn, Leif enjoyed the blissful sensation of half-asleep, yet not awake. Only the working class could appreciate such a thing in its true depth of emotion, in his opinion.

Scuffing of boots caught his attention, drawing him from the quiet drowsiness into full alert status. _‘Now what? Half-octopus men from Mars, visiting me for moonshine? That era’s over, get to town if you want some beer!’_

More scuffling, the sound of smooth-soled shoes on dusty gravel, drifted from below. The horses whickered, not ready to give up their comfortable positions, but wary – Leif opted to follow their example. Ten thousand generations of instincts weren’t always right, but counting them wrong lead to trouble more times than not.

“Larsen doing better?”

He grew still. Hearing one’s own name often did that to a person. Why was Wesson meeting someone in a barn? There were better meeting places available pretty much anywhere else. But, it was close to the house, sheltered, and built Ford tough. Or at least, as tough as the vehicles once were.

“Healing up fast. Something he’s eating, or maybe he’s not that human. Background checks came out clean.”

Leif rolled his eyes, safe where no one could see. Of course he was human. The entire country was full of humans, why else would a place as far away from civilization be needed as a stomping grounds?

“Did you get me the profile on his neighbors? Knudtsen?”

“Yeah. All there. You want a team on him?”

“Don’t bother,” Wesson’s voice was dry. “Doesn’t look like much on the files. If he’s the same guy though, he won’t appreciate guests as much as Larsen.”

A note of surprise interjected itself in the second individual’s voice. “Larsen was … welcoming?”

“We surprised him. Bad miscalculation on my part,” Wesson admitted. “But we’re working through it. At the start, he wouldn’t let anyone into his house. Put in a moratorium on surveillance equipment inside his house.”

“Only in America,” the other voice chuckled. “You sure you don’t want a team on Knudtsen? He might need an eye.”

Wesson snorted. “If he’s the same guy that I think he is, you wouldn’t ask that. The man was a legend in the Maquis, could go anywhere, reach anyone. Why he decided to retire out in the middle nowhere’s a mystery, but one _we will not solve._ We good?”

“Yeah.” The first voice acquiesced. “Don’t want to poke the bear. I mean, Larsen went barmy over serving girls. What would Knudtsen do?”

A moment of silence stretched further, little movements downstairs just audible. One of the horses chose the moment to rise, thudding hooves bearing its half-ton weight against the ground. After another few heartbeats, the first voice cleared its throat. “He wouldn’t do anything _too_ bad, right?”

“I’m thinking,” Wesson sounded contemplative. “So far all I can come up with is punji sticks, those painting traps the Nazi’s used, poisoned chocolate, land mines, darts, pitfalls, bouncing Betty’s …” his voice petered out. “Just … just don’t do it. Okay, Allen?”

“Right. Well I’ll kip out here. No sense antagonizing the host. Did you get a count on visitors for tomorrow?”

“A dozen or so. Getting ready for the official meet and greet later. I told Larsen but he might not have understood, so I’ll go over it again tomorrow.”

“Sir. Can’t help but admit a little jealousy though.”

The government man’s voice turned curious. “Oh? He just got shot the other day, had his life turned upside down, is being given more attention in the past few days than he’s had in the past decade …?”

“And right now,” the voice shifted around the barn, closer to the center. “He is in the house _suffering_ the attentions of three very interested, attractive young women. And if he wanted, I’d bet the lamia in the basement wouldn’t say no either.”

Leif’s eyes hurt from the rolling action needed to adequately portray his opinion on the matter. _‘Perhaps I misjudged Wesson. Didn’t think he’d respect Gramps privacy that much.’_

Creaking alerted him to the fact of an individual climbing the ladder to the loft. For a moment, Leif considered retreating further back. Then the potential of using the pitchfork resting against the near wall crossed his mind. Finally, he opted to simply lay back and watch as the pointed tips of a male neko rose above the loft’s floor, and turn into the shape of one of the guardians he’d seen during Zakapenko’s housing events.

The neko was shaking his head, muttering under his breath. Given his weight, diminutive height, and position, it sounded like a boy just past puberty grumbling into an oatmeal container.

All his noisemaking stopped as he caught sight of Leif lounging on the straw tick, pupils growing wide. “S-s-sir?”

Leif jerked a thumb towards the house. “Women.”

It was rather satisfying, he thought, to see a look of commiseration, surprise and panic all compete for space on the neko’s face. It coalesced into disbelief. “You had no trouble sleeping there this afternoon.”

“Different.” Leif considered the statement. “Old fashioned.”

Allen pulled himself into a full-body shrug. “In this time, you are likely to be called sexist. Racist, perhaps.”

A brief chuckle reverberated through Leif’s chest. It was funny what people thought.

“But I believe a better term would be _chivalrous._ ” The cat-man finished, giving a small grin. “No wonder the centaurs adore you.”

His chuckle turned into a groan. “They’re young. Smart. They’ll figure themselves out in no time.”

The smile grew wider, like a small crescent moon. “You agreed to make Lady Yidderman your partner. That is for life, you realize.”

Leif started counting prime numbers in his head. “She’s a pretty filly. She’ll find someone better than a rancher out in the middle of nowhere.”

“She chose you.” Allen responded simply. Moving to one side, he unfurled a ground tarp, pulling a sleeping bag from behind a hay bale. “The next choice is yours, _Lord_ Larsen.”

A deeper groan pulled itself into Leif’s thoracic cavity. _‘Don’t need this. Need sleep. Gonna be a long day tomorrow … a dozen more folks? What’s next, mermaids?’_

Sudden thoughts about the reconstructed river coursed through his memory. He winced. _‘I’m not getting back to normal anytime soon, am I?’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Another chapter will be up for New Year's, but what's the best holiday without a little gift here and there? Enjoy!


	14. House Call

Night proved short, far shorter than the season suggested. For Leif, it was an exercise in comfort and its antonym. Comfort in that the crisp, cool night soothed every worry like a balm, promising all the labor performed that year would not be in vain. Warmth emanated from the livestock below, pushing back the chill while ensuring the warm scent remained, reassuring to a man such as he.

The neko had been on edge for hours, until Leif had broken down and outright demanded he relax on another easily filled straw tick mattress. Then, he’d fallen asleep in minutes, leaving Leif to drowse under the rafters. The awkward feeling of having boots on in bed was negligible, but ever-present. By morning he’d gotten enough sleep, but his leg had gone stiff. That was his second indication something was wrong, after the inability to remove his boots the prior night.

The third hint appeared when the leg refused to bend as he tried to get up. Confused, he reached down, feeling the affected limb. Muscles swelled tight under his touch, refusing to flex. Reciprocating bunches of muscle groups twanged agreement in the upper right portion of his back, the result of compensating for the damage. But the wound felt hot, painful, and swollen.

Of course, the neko caught his stiffness. “Sir, are you well?”

“Peachy.” He tried a grin, but the cat-like man ignored the effort. “Just a little stiff.”

Somehow the felinoid was right next to him, despite having been standing beside the ladder to Leif’s very distinct memory. Liminal speed was another factor he’d been trying to incorporate in his thinking. “Right, let’s take a look. Pants down.”

Leif gave him a stare.

“I’m not one of the ladies of your harem, Mister Larsen. I’m a professional medic, trained to cut you open and put you back together again. Pants. Down. _Sir_.”

There was stubbornness, and there was practicality. This was no time to stand on foolishness.

A quiet growl rumbled in the neko’s chest. “You tore your stitches. Were you going to talk about it?”

There seemed little point in pointing out the obvious – he’d no more idea when the problem started than anyone else. But the little person’s teeth were showing, and he’d had enough pointless competing attitudes.

“I can’t carry you down.” His ad hoc physician finished. “Stay here, and I’ll get help.”

Not waiting for argument, the feline figure performed a backflip over the railing some five feet away, dropping another twenty feet to the floor below. Leif failed to hear a single displaced pebble.

_‘Something else for the weirdness list.’_ He listened, and managed to catch the main door roll back on oiled wheels, if not the footsteps. _‘Think of it like Ma’s around; she could come out of nowhere and scare the living daylights out of ya.’_

Considering the unoccupied area, he considered making a run for it, after readjusting his clothing. Common sense managed to send a firecall down his spinal cord, reminding him of the potential damage – not just to his leg, but to fragile trust. Easing back down, a re-clothed Leif resigned himself to the next few minutes of probable excited-over-nothingness.

He was not disappointed.

Far and away, the ranch door banged open, then made the characteristic creak as its spring complained. A single hollow _clomp_ resounded off the wooden porch, followed by clattering crunches of gravel. A second confused grouping of wooden sounds followed seconds after, accompanied by a female cry of surprise, then one of – not fear. Gratitude? Just noise so far as he could tell.

Seconds later galloping hooves skidded to a halt outside the barn door, which slid back faster than it had in years. A new pair of feet hit the ground – lacking the heavy, metallic sounding ring of hooves, and in a heartbeat, Aredhel’s face appeared by the ladder.

Her eyes darted around the loft, taking in the bed, his form, and whatever else elvish sight could perceive. But the orbs focused on his own, the faint hint of panic fading. “Milord, you are injured?”

“No.” He deliberated standing, then filed the idea back under _Inadvisable_. “Just not healin’ as fast as I could be.”

“Do not fear,” she ascended the rest of the way, “We have you.” The elf stopped at the top, and looked down. “He is well, Roanette. I see no signs of bleeding. Stay there, I’ll bring him down.”

“Where else would I go?” An irritated snort came from below. “Hecate, Loki and Prometheus _damn_ whoever invented ladders!”

It was time, Leif decided, to make his status known. He raised his voice a touch, pitching it towards the ladder’s far side. “I’m fine. Just went a bit hard, that’s all.”

Aredhel snorted, an unladylike gesture, but akin to the centauride down below. Perhaps they’d grown to see beyond their differences? Or perhaps the sky was planning to fall and was sending a gracious warning.

“Let’s get you down to the house,” she said. “Can you walk?”

He almost grimaced. “Yah.”

A look of fond exasperation twisted across her face. “I shall rephrase. Can you walk without further injuring yourself, or incurring more pain?”

Leif considered. “Might sting a little,” he allowed. “Nothin’ major.”

“Then I will help you to the ladder.” Aredhel pulled herself onto the loft’s floor in a single, smooth motion. She reached a hand down, and let it hang there, waiting.

Grabbing it, Leif hauled himself up. Her skin was warm, far warmer than his own. For her size, she was surprisingly strong, bearing his weight with ease. Leaning his bulk on her shoulder, the two worked their way to the ladder – a simple feat of a half-dozen steps.

“He’s coming down,” Aredhel called over the edge.

The ladder’s rungs were as steady as the day they’d been installed. They had to be; heavy loads were guided up its length many times throughout its existence.

Below, Roanette stood firm, flannel-covered shoulders back, broad muscles rippling. “I am here, milord. Do you need a –“

“I’m good, thanks.” Leif gripped the ladder with both hands, resting his full weight on them. Using just his right foot to carry weight seemed to work, letting his left dangle for the descent of an approximate three body lengths. By the time he was ten feet above the floor, he could feel a guiding hand on his good side, helping support his weight.

“I have you,” Roanette caught his weight before the last few steps were taken, and lowered him to the floor as if he weighed no more than a child. “We must get you to the house.”

She looked as if she wanted to say something further, but subsided. Leif could guess at her intent; it had been a matter of contention the past day or two.

“Might need a bit of help,” he hesitated. Then he shook his head, feeling as if the world’s decisions were rushing past. It took great effort to push past the reluctance; the sensation in his heart like lifting a bull by the horns, redirecting its energy away from harm. Practice, instinct and a natural reluctance welded together in a tractor-sized load. But he forced himself to do it, what he’d never wanted to do in his entire life.

“Sorry. Mind giving me a hand?”

Roanette’s smile could’ve illuminated the back Forty, the oxbow pond bordering its northern reaches, and made a good stab at lighting up the nearest slopes of Grandfather’s Shoulder. Even a small mountain was still large enough to defy normal efforts. Her hands were gentle as they supported Leif from one side. “It would be my greatest pleasure, mi – I mean, _Leif._ ”

He was surprised at having to fight back a blush. Asking for help had caused such a strong reaction? He’d have to be careful. A fool might lose his heart if one did not tread lightly. Thank heavens he was no fool.

Aredhel smiled back at him from the ground, near silent footfalls giving no warning. “If I may suggest, Lord Larsen? It would be easier for both of you to consider this a medical emergency.”

A switch seemed to flip behind Roanette’s eyes. “Of course. I promise to be gentle. This is your first time, is it not?”

Some sort of joke appeared to be in the offing. Leif could tell by the sudden coughing spurt Aredhel suffered, and how the neko had a sudden need to cover the lower half of his face. Whatever it was had no bearing on the current situation. Instead he gave the elf a long look. After a few seconds of his regard, she started squirming.

He turned his focus to the centauride. The woman gave him a shy smile, and rotated sideways, offering the breadth of her back. “Well, Lo – _Leif_?”

Eyebrows went up. This was the second time she’d used his proper name that day, twice as often as the past few weeks combined. _‘If she’s willing to learn .…’_

Beyond that, he made a hesitant motion, feeling her strong supporting arm tense a minute amount. He gave in, feeling nerves jangle a warning along his own spine. “You sure it’s all right?”

The brilliant smile shimmered into view once more. “Would I have offered were it not?”

Obvious counter-arguments chuntered through his mind. He did the manful thing and ignored them. “Um. Might work.”

Roanette’s smile broadened, changing from dazzling scintillation to a quieter, warmer portmanteau of contented happiness. “Then, by your leave?”

Not understanding at first, Leif could only give a befuddled look. That was, until the centauride’s other hand came around, taking hold of him beneath both arm pits. “Uh … sure.”

The woman hefted his weight up and around, rotating at the hips to rest him upon her back. Out of consideration for the injury she refrained from setting him legs spread, instead letting him sit side-saddle. After he settled, she paused again, all four legs shifting a touch. “Please, hold on to me if you need. I will go as soft as I may but I would not wish you to fall.”

Grudging, Leif slid an arm around her waist, clenching out of habit when the centauride began to move. It was … unfamiliar. Yet it was a sensation as familiar as far back as he could recall, the steady gait of four hooves beneath his legs and a warm, comfortable back to lean against. It was a bit relaxing, in fact. Leif caught himself closing his eyes for a moment, resting the side of his head against her back, when the sound of a shutter clicked from further away.

His eyes shot open and caught Wesson standing less than ten paces off, Sophette prancing behind him with a gleeful look on her face. One of the rectangular cell phone things that city folk seemed to worship sat in Wesson’s hands, backside aimed at Leif and Roanette.

Leif’s subconscious mind leaped to the logical conclusion before the rest of his brain could react, and fired a death glare at the government man.

_‘If pics are going to be in the offin’, I’d rather walk.’_

Wesson smirked. Behind the Asian agent’s back, Sophette raised both her hands in a silent cheer.

Leif turned up his disapproval to the most threatening level he could manage, sitting side-saddle on a half-woman’s back, being carried across his own backyard because of his own stupidity. Part of his frustration must’ve carried through, as Wesson’s smirk faded.

Before he could do anything else though, Roanette was at the back door. She paused there, reluctant it seemed about something.

He took the decision himself, sliding free and stumbling on one leg until Aredhel lent her shoulder. Steady once more, Leif gave an absent-minded slap against the horse-like withers. “Thanks. Appreciated.”

A sudden sense of foreboding hijacked his brain. _‘What have I done?’_

“You … you are welcome. _Leif_.” Roanette didn’t face him, possible humiliation preventing the action. Or shyness, he couldn’t discount that. Liminals were strange, first flaunting everything their mother gave them, then dancing around simple actions – or he was just ignorant. He tried to never discount that factor.

Aredhel pulled him forwards out of his contemplation. “Come inside, please. We need to get you off that leg.”

That made sense. Too little of this adventure had done so. Leif allowed himself to be lead through the back door, catching only a quick glimpse of Roanette’s fiery blush out of the corner of one eye.

Inside, the ranch house remained calm. The old grandfather clock ticked its ancient rhythm, a carriage clock over the mantelpiece made its counterpoint, smaller gears making higher-pitched sounds. Somewhere the furnace kicked in, cooler air triggering its sensors. Deeper, the refrigerator’s basso thrum made a constant background noise, comfortable in its droning unchanging nature.

“Sit, please.” Aredhel helped him towards a chair, held in place by Fanchon. The neko was dressed in a more conservative fashion, slacks and a button-front blouse.

Leif grunted approval, of which he didn’t know. But it was a positive sound and people didn’t question when approving noises were made. He lowered himself into the chair, and took a deep breath. “Obliged.”

“It is nothing,” Aredhel flashed a grin his way. “The medic that put in the stitches the first time is in Havre right now, but Fanchon gave him a call, and he should be here soon.”

Leif hesitated. Then he thought – there had been a great deal of cogitation progressing the past few weeks. “Should call Doc Nilsson. Over in town. Number’s on the phone. Ask him over.”

Fanchon vanished while Aredhel cocked her head to one side. “What do you want to happen when the doctor comes? Should we … leave?”

Leif snorted. “Half the county knows you’re here by now. No point.”

“But,” Aredhel pursed her lips. “No, you are right. I have seen your neighbors in their fields – if they can be seen, than so can we.”

“Yah.” Leif stretched his leg a little, feeling a welcome burst of complaint. Too much damage removed that sense of discomfort, he wasn’t too far gone. “Besides, Doc’s a good guy. Bring him in early; can help ride herd when folks start going loco.”

“Establishing a fourth column, yes.” Aredhel looked thoughtful. “We looked into it, but the smaller towns possess too close ties with each other to infiltrate with any level of success.”

He gave her a look. “So don’t try.”

Roanette smugly folded her arms across her abdomen, adding pressure to the already straining flannel. “It is as I said: Deception is not the way forward.”

“It is necessary sometimes,” Aredhel waved away the comment. “Greater good, yes?”

Another sigh seemed to pick its cue from the conversation, percolating from Leif’s toes and travelling its way up. He manfully struggled to keep it in, but failed at the last moment. “Really.”

Elegant eyebrows cocked his way. “You disagree?”

“National security, maybe. But keeping too many secrets just gets you burned.” Leif nodded at the construction site visible from the back window. “You think so too, else you wouldn’t be poppin’ up right now.”

“It is troublesome as it is,” Roanette agreed, frowning. Her arms hugged herself tighter. “Our contacts in the Middle East have informed us that a _Fatwa_ has been placed on any nonhumans found in the company of,” Her hands abandoned their hold in order to make small apostrophes. “Good practitioners of the faith. It is an undesirable outcome, but not unexpected.”

Aredhel’s head leaned forward, long braid pulled forward by the motion and slithering over her shoulder. “Malaysia is … disorganized. The best we could hope for under the circumstances.”

“France went nuts,” Leif massaged his leg with one hand out of habit. “Expected that too?”

Roanette narrowed her eyes in thought. “France? I‘d heard very positive reactions from France.”

“Yeah,” the rancher agreed. Hi hand balled up, thumping his thigh before returning to the slow rubbing motion. “Cat ear headbands, scale gloves, those little pom-pom things for your butt – they’re _real_ excited. Reminds me about their history. _Élan_ , they called it. Helped Napoleon, at first. Then he lost too many officers. Same thing in their Revolution. Happy at first, then heads started to roll.”

Aredhel’s eyes were narrowed as well, but pointed at Leif. “I … see. An interesting analysis.”

“Wasn’t there.” He realized what his hand was doing and pulled it up to clench into a fist on his lap. “Read about it somewhere.”

“You do have an extensive library,” the elf agreed, still looking at him.

Soft footfalls announced the neko’s presence. “Doctor Nilsson is coming. He said it would be fifteen minutes.”

“Good.” Leif nodded. “Good man. Always crackerjack.”

A confused look passed between the three, no four women, Leif noticed. Sophette had somehow entered the room without a sound – unless she’d already been in the room? – and was couched on one of the specialized seating benches that had appeared over the past few days. None seemed willing to voice their confusion.

He rubbed a hand over his face, more to keep the doggone thing away from his leg than anything else. “Real good at what he does. Professional.”

This time smiles of comprehension passed through the group.

Following this with silence felt uncomfortable. Leif could sense it, and if _he_ could feel it, everyone could feel it. He turned to the sable-haired centauride. “Ro. What can you tell me about the apple harvest this year.”

The woman brightened. “An excellent harvest milord—ah – _Leif_. There are, or were I should say, a number of Carroll still left to be harvested. However the blizzard appears to have scattered them across the orchard. I will have a team ready to pick up the produce by tonight.”

Leif shook his head. “Leave ‘em.”

“Sir?” Roanette looked confused. “It would be no trouble.”

“Yah, nah.” He felt a note of humor at the raven-haired woman’s confusion, even through the pain forcing its presence to be acknowledged. But he relented, seeing her increasing distress. “Deer have been eatin’ there for years. Food source. Good harvest is good, but don’t pick _everything_.”

“Oh.” A strange look he didn’t recognize was growing in her eyes, admiration and … hunger? He hoped it was just hunger. “I see. That is most generous of you, my lord.”

“Leif,” he reminded her. “”It’s a bit o’ a custom out here. Most farmers been doin’ it for a while.”

Aredhel had a notebook out, jotting down something. “Local habits, good to know. Thank you Larsen.”

“Pleasure.”

The neko came back into the room, carrying a tray of steaming mugs. He hadn’t even seen her leave, something he was beginning to associate with all liminals at this point, and something he’d have to work on if he wanted to remain sane. “Cider?”

“Thank you,” he accepted the mug, feeling its welcome warmth on cold hands.

“Are there other practices we should know?” Aredhel’s pen remained poised over the notepad. “We are aware of the road maintenance protocols, and your practice of raising a hand when driving past a neighbor, _ja_. How do you determine the best way to approach a neighbor?”

He stared at her. “Takes time. If’n they need help, you give it if you can. But if they’re being goldang stupid, ain’t much you can do but stay away.”

Her pen wiggled on paper. “I have noticed some divisions in the community. The Shwenkes are opposed to academic changes, while the Knudtsens have championed the centralization of local highschools into Midburg. Why is this?”

Leif paused. “Hm. Well, lots ‘o reasons. But … not too complicated.”

“Please,” Roanette entreated. “Perhaps a brief overview?”

He sighed. “Well, see, the Knudtsen’s have been here for two, three generations; old Finnish stock. The Shwenke’s got here ‘bout the same time, old Russian family. Used to be a lot of bad blood between Fins and Ruskies. Gotten better since then, but old grudges die hard. Still pretty competitive.”

Succinct as it was, he felt bad. Explanations were hard. Obvious things needed to be gone over in detail work – which meant he had to extrapolate. How old Robert Shwenke had totaled a new car, so new that it hadn’t been paid for, and then allowed the seller to repossess – clever resource management, but dishonorable. That lead to the Knudtsen’s habit of pushing the borders of neighborly acceptance, letting fences decay into such disrepair so cattle could wander onto the road. Small events that happened decades prior that were remembered by everyone in the area, even after the perpetrator had died or left.

“Wait,” Roanette’s raised hand cut him off. “You call it Grandfather’s Shoulder. But I have checked the survey maps, and they call it Salish Peak.”

Leif blinked. “So?”

“Is that not considered disrespectful?” Roanette flipped long hair behind her back. “The naming was done in honor of a local tribe, was it not?”

Another long sigh emanated from Leif’s chest. “Lot of tribes here once. Sioux. Cree. Arapaho. All of ‘em had disagreements; each other, and the settlers. Great-great grandma was Sioux, handed down a lotta stories. But they were people like anybody else. Some good, some bad. They lost a lot, but they stayed alive. Can’t say the same for Argentina. Or what Caesar did to those Gallic tribes. Grandfather’s Shoulder was the name before my family got here, and most folks around here don’t care what some pencil-pusher in Washington thinks.”

“Interesting,” Aredhel’s tone contained neither support nor condemnation, as if she were actually thinking about his words. He’d take what he could get. “How about –“

Hard raps at the door interrupted their talk. Aredhel seized her notebook, pulling a headband about her ear tips, while Roanette made an undignified scramble for the back hall just behind her sister, rubber-clad hooves making dull thumping noises.

Prepared this time, Leif’s listening caught the feather-light footfalls of the neko’s disappearance, and glimpsed a dark tail slip out of sight. The kitchen was a good place to hide, especially the pantry if one were small and athletic.

A second series of knocks barraged the front door, followed by a hoarse bass bellowing. “Larsen? You dead yet?”

Leif sighed, and raised his own voice. “Get in here, Nilsson.”

The front door opened, opening wide to admit a massive man, bending to fit under the seven foot lintel. A thick coat wrapped itself around his frame, torn and repaired many times over. One hand clutched a black leather bag while the other grasped the door, heaving it shut after coming inside.

Straightening, the doctor stomped his feet, shaking moist particulates into the rug. “What’s this I hear about torn stitches?”

Leif waved from the living room. “Hey.”

The doctor frowned at the floor, then reached down, undoing clasps on the sides of his boots. His bag thumped against the floor like a pile of bricks, seconds before Aredhel could reach it. “Don’t bother missy, just need to get me boots off.”

“May I take your coat?” the elf recovered quickly. “Your hat?”

“You may indeed, indeed you may.” The oversized stocking cap popped free, revealing a mass of red hair thicker than the lawn turf some folk harvested nearby. “Thank you ma’am. Sorry, Doctor Nilsson. You are …?”

“That’s Red,” Leif called out from his position. “Works with the Feds.”

“Ah. With the trucks and all out back then?” the big man shucked off his second boot, letting it stand in the corner’s rubber mat. “That’s better. Had them things on all morning, last night too. Pleasure to meet you Miss Red.”

“Aredhel Lithlinde,” the elf corrected. “Mister Larsen gives nicknames, it seems.”

A surprised look entered the doctor’s eyes. “Did he now? Must trust you an awful lot. But what’s the problem?”

Leif overrode whatever it was that the elf had been about to say, tapping his leg for emphasis. “Got a few stitches here. Popped ‘em today.”

Nilsson became all business rising to his seven foot plus height, squinting at Leif. “I didn’t see your name on the roster this week. Who did ‘em?”

“That would be Lieutenant Kissasen, combat medic.” Aredhel came around the man’s far side. Her height, tall for a woman, fell short of the doctor’s shoulder. “There was an altercation on Mister Larsen’s property, and a gunshot wound.”

Eyebrows shot up, lost in a bushy head of head. “Gunshot? Larsen, you know I have to report those.”

“Didn’t exactly have a choice,” Leif rolled his eyes. “Got patched up, got home, got stormed in. ‘sides, you report ‘em if _you_ fix ‘em. Not your problem.”

Three steps saw the doctor across the room, long strides taken at an easy pace making the poor elf sprint to keep up. “Right then. Trousers down.”

Leif paused, waiting.

Blushing, Aredhel hurried out of the room. A slight movement form the door and the two men were left alone.

“Need to take a look, can you sit here?” Nilsson patted the footstool. He waited until Leif was settled, then leaned closer, lowering his voice. “No carth out-thide. Loth of rumorth. Blink twithe if you need me to get you out of here.”

Leif sighed.

The big doctor’s voice assumed normal volumes while his sharp eyes watched. “Saw your Da a few days ago. Healthy as a horse.” His voice dropped again, mispronouncing the highly audible components. “ _Hothtage_?”

This time Leif arched an eyebrow at him, then gave a pointed look at the gun safe in one corner of the room.

In return Nilsson gave a slow blink at the barn, visible from the back window, and the unseen yet valuable, well-trained, horses within.

Leif sighed. “Bit o’ explaining. But you’re first on the list. Finish patching me up and let’s get to it.”

“Fair.” Nilsson nodded, but tapped his own upper arm with meaning. A bulge almost invisible through the sheer mass of clothing, could be discerned through the fabric, a common place for a concealed sidearm. “I’ll take care of you.”

Long minutes passed while the doctor worked. Fingers like sausages worked with surprising grace, deftly re-suturing the injury in tiny, individual stitches. Gauze kept the minimal bleeding at bay, far less than what had been there the first time.

The hooked needle made a final motion, and Nilsson cut the tied-off thread with a clip of his scissors. “That should do it. One moment, use a little alcohol to clean it up.”

Leif hissed as isopropanol penetrated what the mild analgesic had blunted. “Thanks. Can you tell them I’m good?”

“Depends.” Nilsson shuffled the used materials into a sealed baggie, doubling it over before stashing it back in his black bag. “You were going to show me somethin’?”

“Ya.” Leif finished re-clothing himself. Despite the distraction, he did not miss the other man rise, positioning his back to a corner, arms folded so the dominant hand rested close to the concealed firearm.

Raising his voice, Leif directed himself towards the kitchen. “Red? Could you come out –“

Before his sentence could be finished the young woman was approaching, sashaying across the floor. “Yes, sir. What do you need?”

Leif blinked. The elf wore a pair of glasses he was certain she didn’t need, dressed in new clothes resembling a corporate secretary – if that secretary happened to be a fashion model, and trained in how to strut by a runway coach. There were hints of darker lace beneath the thin pale coloration of her blouse, the entire ensemble covered in an abbreviated jacket, buttoned shut.

Nilsson snickered. “That it? You’re dating her?”

A death glare reduced the giant’s teasing to nothing. “Red, could you show Doc your ears?”

Aredhel hesitated. “Are you … certain?”

He nodded, once.

“Very well,” she sighed. One hand reached back, freeing one long eartip. It rose to its usual position, accompanied by its companion across her head. “Doctor. You are versed in standard permutations amongst auricular tendencies, are you not?”

Leif was lost halfway through the sentence, but Nilsson nodded.

“Then you are aware that without surgery, a human ear is less than seven centimeters long on average. Then please observe that my own ears are more than ten centimeters long, and tapered.”

One large hand reached out, then hesitated. “May I?”

Aredhel retreated a graceful step. “I would prefer not, they are sensitive and considered personal.”

“Fair,” Nilsson’s eyes scrunched tight, studying the visible structures. “Hmm. The helix is extended, don’t know what the hell to call the triangular fossa placement, but the auricular tubercle looks about normal.”

“They’re real.” Leif leaned back into the chair. “She’s an elf.”

Nilsson’s eyes widened. “The news was talking about that. Some kind of Exchange gearing up. Then that means ….”

“Yep,” Leif followed the other man’s gaze towards the construction site. “They came to me a couple months ago now, asking to set up a place. Need a lot of leg room.”

“I’d imagine.” Nilsson’s gaze returned to Aredhel’s ears, which were turning slightly pink at the scrutiny. “Not to be rude, but … are you two together?”

“Not at the moment,” Aredhel began. “Altho –“

“No.” Leif interrupted. The elf turned a hurt look his direction, one he met without flinching. “The Exchange sent a few folks my way. She’s the rep for her people. A professional.”

Despite his skeptical look, Nilsson refrained from comment.

“Ro’?” Leif raised his voice. “Your turn.”

Footsteps, too many for a single individual, clopped from the kitchen as well. After a moment the tall centauride emerged, hair brushed back, shoulders squared. Blue eyes, dark as the sunset’s antithesis, studied the doctor. For once she seemed to be looking up at the guest’s tall frame, an unusual experience if Leif was any judge. She gave a shallow bow. “Doctor. Lord Larsen has spoken well of you. It is a pleasure; I am Roanette Yidderman, daughter of Chiron Yidderman, Representative for the Golden Hills clan.”

It was with great effort that Leif kept his laughter under a fake calm. Nilsson’s expression suggested that he’d discovered a long passed expiration date on a bag of recently consumed mushrooms, and now expected small fairies to grant wishes, should he lose concentration on the vision before him.

He stayed that way for a full minute, until Roanette sidled towards Leif’s rocking chair, and leaned close to whisper. “Is he well? I heard him from the kitchen, he did not seem unwell then …?”

Leif couldn’t help grunting a choked laugh. The sound broke the big doctor from whatever reverie he’d lost himself.

“Sorry,” Nilsson blushed a deep red. “Didn’t mean to zone out there. But … ah … Larsen?”

Leif raised a side of his mouth in a half smile, half knowing smirk. “Surprising. Ain’t it.”

“Did I eat locoweed or something?” Nilsson squeezed the palm of one hand across his face. “Me nephew works at some PMC out in the Middle East. Said the rumors were true, that the whole Exchange thing was true. Elves I can understand hiding in plain sight. But centaurs?”

Roanette shook out her hair, placing a hand on Leif’s shoulder. He could tell by the slight tension gripping the distal side of his clavicle that she was close to panic, and sought comfort. He let the hand rest there.

“Our people,” she spoke in a clear voice. “Have been in hiding for centuries. But it is not difficult for a few to stay out of sight when those of more familiar shapes may perform as intermediaries.”

“Yes,” Aredhel came around to Leif’s other side, placing a possessive hand on his other shoulder, one that clenched insistence. He was starting to feel like a set of encyclopedia, stitched up and complete with bookends. “The _Shwarzerwald Föderation_ has had the honor of interacting with the Golden Hills clan for the past five centuries, to a greater or lesser extent. But perhaps you should sit down?”

Nilsson glanced back, and chose a footstool to rest his bulk. “Think I better. Any more new people here, Larsen?”

He smirked again. “Fanchon, would you mind asking Jen’il or Sarah to come up here please?”

The neko appeared from nowhere, curtseying. “ _Oui_ , _monsieur_. They are eager to meet a doctor of this country. _Zey_ are great lovers of _ze_ masters of medicine.”

Nilsson’s expression flattened, eyes tracing the cat ears and active tail. “Cat people.”

“Just wait.” Leif leaned back a little further. “Have you heard of the lamia? Or maybe you’d know ‘em as _naga_?”

* * *

It turned out that not only had the big man heard of them, _they_ had heard of _him_. Doctors appeared to be on the snake people’s list of Very Important People, although Leif was reasonably certain such treatment did not involve so many clothing malfunctions. Or necessity of caressing. If he’d thought the centauride and elf were bad, the naga seemed to outright require cuddling to survive. The duration took hours, over half the day to conclude, keeping Nilsson present until the sun had long gone below the horizon and the stars were in full display.

“He’s just so _big_ ,” Jen’il gushed after the good doctor had managed to tear himself away. It had been almost a literal thing, too, what with how Sarah’s tail had been wrapped around a limb at all times. “Did you see how he lifted me with one arm? Just one arm!”

Leif shrugged. “He’s a Nilsson.”

All three lamia snapped their collective attention to him. Rica, the largest of the three, slid forwards. “Explain?”

“Nilsson’s always run big,” the carving in his hands was almost done, a centauride, galloping free on a wooden grassland imitation. It was his first effort in liminal carving; enough horses sat on shelves to make a herd. It was time for something new. “It’s in their blood. Come from Minnesota, old Norwegian stock, I think. His sister’s six five, Da’ hit seven even last I knew?”

The information brought the trio’s excited conversation to a feverish buzz as they descended once more into the cellar. He could make out admiring comments about subjects he’d rather not consider. There were things a man shouldn’t know about the inner workings of the female mind.

Moving back towards the big bedroom that was his, Leif took stock. Enough of his extra shirts had vanished by now to cause irritation, especially as they were slipping off after a hard day’s work. How could he be expected to get washing done if there wasn’t anything to wash? After years of solitary existence there was no shortage, but if things kept going the way they were, he’d have clothed the entire representative contingent in the house. He should’ve put his foot down soon.

Then he remembered Roanette, and reconsidered; it had made her so happy for such a simple object. Perhaps it was not all that bad. Immense guilt followed on its heels -- giving false hope was worse than spiteful words. She had a Clydesdale-size crush, and giving her things wasn’t going to help mitigate the situation.

Maybe inspiration would come to him after a good night’s sleep. He put the finished carving on the end table, and admired it for a moment. The strong features were present in the rippling muscles, he could see that. But there were some imperfections; the point of attachment between horse and human looked a bit off, he’d been forced to cover it up with a carved belt. The torso looked acceptable, shoulders wide yet gentle, an arm bent at the elbow, fist clenched as if urging greater speed.

_‘Not bad.’_ He pushed it a little further towards the edge. There was a good piece of cherry wood waiting for inspiration next to the fireplace, maybe another attempt at an elk; the antlers never came out right for him.

Sighing, he stripped his shirt, then looked at the small hamper with suspicion. Eschewing it this time, he took the clothing with him into the bathroom. Showering didn’t take long, and the door was shut as firm as it could be while steam rose and fell.

Toweling off, he made sure to be fully dressed. A deep breath was required, and a certain girding of the loins, before he felt prepared – and opened the door.

No one stood outside his bathroom door. Paranoia forced Leif to clear up and down the hall, only to see nothing.

Relief tempered with caution, Leif proceeded to the small laundry room, depositing his clothing directly into the machine. It would work part of the night, leaving it fresh for him to dry in the morning. Machinery was magical that way, far more than the appearance of multi-specied humans. Give it a task, and it would be completed, no emotional input, no unnecessary human interaction.

“Good night, sir.”

This time he’d heard the faint patter of padded feet. _‘Not this time, cat lady!’_

Without turning he gave a nod. “Night.”

Something caught his ears, now that he was listening so hard, the faint susurration of wind making the eaves moan. That meant the wind was coming from the southwest for a change, which preceded bad weather.

“Better hurry. Wind’s pickin’ up.” he finished loading the washer, and adjusted its settings. “Going to hit tonight.”

The neko shivered. “Another storm?”

“Eh,” he turned around to face her, stretching one arm. “Little one.”

A frustrated look crossed her face. “But how do you know? You knew when there was a blizzard, even when the forecasters were predicting rain. You knew when to harvest your crops, spending days out in the fields without returning. _How do you know?_ ”

Leif blinked, and stepped back. The cat-eared woman stood just at chest height, glaring at him with fur standing up all along her head like a mane. But while ridiculous as the concept should have been, her irritation felt similar to that one time a bobcat had gotten itself trapped in the corn bin.

Cautious, he reached out, and patted the fur between Fanchon’s ears. It was soft, like the downy fuzz on a kitten. “You speak French?”

Her ears relaxed under the ministrations. “ _Oui?_ ”

“How?”

Fanchon’s eyes closed, then snapped open, focused on his caressing hand.

He pulled back, and leaned against the washing machine. The sound of water filling its innards began to trickle through the room. “Yah. It ain’t something big. Just … watchin’. Wind from the south ain’t common here, means a little wet. Wind from the East? Big storm, weird one. Worst weather comes from the Northwest, up Canada way. Polar wind, not much can stop it.”

“I … see.” Her slit-pupiled eyes closed again. “Then, with your permission, I will retire for the evening.”

Leif listened to the wind again, the pitch had risen another octave as a gust creased itself on the metal eaves. “Better take tomorrow off too. Come back a couple days. Got a place?”

She nodded, quick movements assembling her long coat, a hat complete with ear slits, and what appeared to be a small array of combat hardware. “I am staying with Roanette and Aredhel in your cellar.”

Something went _poing_ in Leif’s brain. He stopped to think over that sentence again. “The cellar.”

_“Oui_ ,” Fanchon checked her hat, adjusting its fit. “It was believed that a chaperone made our presence acceptable. Oh, not _this_ cellar, _non_. We repaired – what is the word? _Storm cellar_ , in your back garden. Very pleasant, full of delicious food and the gas stove is working quite well.”

He had to go over the term again. “You are all staying in the storm cellar.”

She paused, purse looped over one shoulder, looking at him in askance. “Yes, is that all right? Only Lady Yidderman believed you would not consent to stay in your home if we … ah … invited ourselves? She seems to think it very chivalrous. _Très romantique,_ no? _Au revoir,_ Larsen.”

“Aw revwah ….” he mangled the phrase, but it seemed to amuse the neko as she vanished through the back door into the night. A faint circle of light was visible, pooling around the bunker-like place his father had improved from a root cellar grandpa had dug. Twice it had been needed, and twice it had saved lives.

Shaking his head, he closed the door. It was time for bed. Not much progress had been made, but then again, not all progress could be measured by pounds moved. Maybe those lamia would go bother the doctor now, instead of –

Leif stopped in his tracks. _‘They’ve been living in my cellar for a week. Never bothered me. Glory hallelujah, it’s a Christmas miracle!’_

Happier, he continued his bedtime preparations. _‘Not quite comfortable with ‘em sitting outside. Don’t want them inside; this ain’t some dude ranch. But they’re guests. In the storm cellar. Ain’t hospitable.’_

Another hard decision was being made, he just knew it. But … after the way they’d interacted with Nilsson that afternoon, and volunteered to stay elsewhere … was there any real valid opposition? They’d proven themselves capable of holding themselves back, and it wasn’t like all three of them were incapable of acting as chaperone.

_‘Like being alone … but when was the last time I actually_ was _alone?’_ he thought. Memory played forwards through his mind, even as he tried to fall asleep.

Sleep was a long time coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here is the next chapter! Another chapter will be forthcoming in the New Year, and then I've hit my bumper for reserve chapters. There's only a few more left, so the timing worked out better this way than in other works I've published.
> 
> One factor to note: Dr. Nilsson's nephew is the protagonist of another MM work I've been writing. That particular work is older than both of the Monster Ranch works, although not quite as smooth in my opinion. I reached chapter 12 in its creation before deciding it was absolute tosh, and started over. Now I'm around chapter 18 in its rewrite. Hopefully this one will work better. I'm also working on Time Traveler's Life 2, and my Mass effect series on my alt account, so ... time is passing like lightning!
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!


	15. Cold Reality

The morning dawned, windy and clear. Some rain the prior night ensured an icy layer’s presence, but gravel lacked asphalt’s smooth texture. His thigh felt sore, but walking proved no hindrance. It was a comfortable walk, which explained part of his near-somnambulant state. A guiding, warm form nudged his good leg now and again, keeping him on track to the barn, which was a godsend under the gloomy skies.

“Morning,” he greeted the filled stalls, half asleep. It had been a late night, filled with pondering. Multiple layers of thought had punished whatever plans he’d had for slumber, and important realizations. Even now he was considering their ramifications.

Frown lines creased his forehead, lopsided tan lines emphasizing the action. ‘ _Nobody’s coming back.’_ a curry brush came out of storage, followed by the dandy brush and a small collection of soft cloths. Confident, slow strides helped the horses know his intentions. Boots made a calming thump on any surface, unlike flimsy sneakers. _‘Hasn’t been a visit in years. Outside Christmas that one time.’_

“Mornin’ Patches,” he entered the stall. “Long night too, eh?”

The horse whickered a greeting, bumping his shoulder with its head. Soon, Leif was lost in the steady motions of grooming, an initial bout of curry brush motions making small circles on the horse’s barrel, followed by the dandy brush to smooth everything back.

 _‘Two years ago. That was it.’_ Memories floated past his mind’s eye. Aiden, the younger brother, a veterinarian well on his way to a solid career. _‘Stopped by after graduatin’, wanted to see the barns before he headed down to Kentucky. Promised he’d come back.’_

He moved on to the softer brush, working out tangles in the patch-work horse’s tail. Despite his tiredness, Leif never forgot to stand to one side – getting kicked had no part in his future plans. Patches whickered again, enjoying the attention.

_‘Erik before then, five years ago? Wonder how that investment firm is doing. Pointed Wesson his way for local business ideas, never heard back. But he promised to come back after college.’_

An old sensation, not quite _loneliness_ , but the pain of separation made a familiar presence. He’d always been better at solitary lifestyle, but even he needed family around once in a while.

 _‘Gustav brought the kids around last spring,’_ a happy memory flickered at the thought. It had been long since children had last been on the ranch. They were so eager, moved so quickly, seizing every day with as much of a grip as their tiny hands could hold. _‘Ivan and Brigette. Good kids.’_

Happier memories buoyed his finishing the job, applying soft cloths to the sensitive regions. A horse’s face held the thinnest skin, even if it was far thicker than that of a normal human’s. As such it spoke to the deep trust when allowing a predatory individual such as a human such close familiarity. He respected that trust, slow movements ensuring every itchy place was scratched.

In truth, this was something that should’ve been done at a later time, early evening or after a good ride. But the action was soothing, and it had been a hard night.

Relaxing, Leif moved to the next stall. This one was a box that occupied a full eighth of the barn, perfect for its oversized occupant. Mongrel, the son of many mothers, resided there. His frame loomed in a corner, a little out of place for the affable, people-loving animal. But the big horse moved over fast enough when he saw the grooming accoutrements in Leif’s hands.

“Easy there big boy,” Leif’s eyes fell half shut, beginning again. “Plenty o’ time.”

As his hands worked on their own, Leif’s mind returned to the troublesome issue at hand. _‘What to do?’_

The issue had been resolved, or so he’d thought. Ensure property remained in Larsen hands, while making certain the liminal delegations had a bit of privacy and rights of their own. It was no different than a tenant contract other than the fact that the tenants weren’t human, had diplomatic immunity, preferred to snuggle up when no one was looking – well. The differences were not in the category of hosting Death Row inmates. At least there was that.

His hands worked faster, twirling the curry brush in intricate circles along Mongrel’s flanks. The big horse grumbled contentment, leaning into the soothing sensation – the poor horse had lacked a proper scratching post other than the stall’s planks and the posts outside. Given his size the horse _should’ve_ been able to push through obstruction, like possessive mares and scratching posts. But the animal was shy. It had taken weeks before he’d become confident around Leif.

Leif frowned, eyes shut. There had been signs of abuse. Mongrel had always been skittish around women. The original owner had been a woman, and sold him at a young age … the connections were disquieting.

Finishing, he moved on after giving the big horse a friendly rub. The next stall was a bit more open than the rest, but even in his tiredness, he could see the small mare standing in the corner.

Swinging the door shut – had it even been locked? – Leif started humming. Low tones, soothing sounds, were better than high-pitched noises when working alongside horses. Dogs appreciated the squeaky sounds, baritones sounded like growling. But horses adored the lower timbres, and the hissing sounds grooms knew.

The mare jumped when Leif started using the curry brush, but settled immediately. “Easy girl,” he intoned, low and gentle. “Let’s get you fancied up a little. Easy does it.”

His hands worked on autopilot, dancing the brush across the withers. They seemed smaller than usual, but nothing outrageous. His dandy brush brought pleasurable sounds from the mare, leaning into the softer bristles as if it were the best thing to have been touched.

This time Leif decided to start at the back end, combing out the tail after a thorough job on the flanks. It was in decent shape already, but the mare seemed to enjoy it, if the trembling skin and exuberant sounds were any indication.

Finished, he worked his way forward, brushing an almost satin sheen into the hide. The legs were in excellent shape as well, which was not a surprise. All the horses had been limited to the barn and the paddock just outside during the last few days. They’d be eager for freedom. Even now the mare was making higher-pitched sounds, eager to get going.

“Almost done girl,” he opened his eyes a half crack, working his brush up the smooth back into the long, pale mane, contrasting nicely with the darker golden coloration of her withers. It was long too, flowing in long strands from the tip of her head to the base of her wide neck, which itself was covered in a flannel warmer.

Leif stopped, moving around towards the front when he noticed a distinct absence of fur-covered hide. His frown grew deeper as his hands started to shift towards where the mare’s head was, and realized his full weight was leaning into something warm, and soft.

Forcing his eyelids open, Leif found himself face to face with dark blue eyes, dancing in mischief, both of his hands frozen on a location he’d _never_ willingly touch. Even after marriage it would need permission.

“Hello, Leif.” Sophette glanced down at his hands, and dimpled a bright smile his way. “Bold. I like that.”

* * *

Grandfather’s Shoulder

Hours Later

Leif inhaled a deep lung full of wintry Montana air. His hands still tingled where they’d made accidental contact … _‘No. Don’t think about it. Relax.’_

At his side rested an old hunting rifle, the Remington 783. He’d modified it himself with a walnut stock, four-round steel magazine and better quality scope. Iron sights were good, but deer hunting meant taking responsibility for ensuring minimal pain.

Far off over the treetops, he could see the ranch house. Even without binoculars there were indications of motion, the sun glinting off windshields and once in a while the sound of heavy equipment. Air proved minimal hindrance to sound on the Plains, and when the wind was right, could carry a baby’s cry over a dozen miles.

They’d had neighbors with children. It was empirical.

He reached up to wipe his forehead, then froze as the palms approached his face. _‘Get over it. It was an accident. She didn’t mind, you know_ you _didn’t, and everyone’s hunky-dory.’_

Swallowing, he finished the motion, clearing the sweat from his hike. Down below, perhaps three hundred feet lower, his ATV sat silent and unmoving. After a hurried explanation to Wesson – whom had looked inordinately pleased – and a quick talk with Earl – whom had looked unbearably smug – he’d made an escape, stopping only long enough to tell Aredhel and Roanette he’d be out hunting on Grandfather’s Shoulder. His leg was judged of sufficient health to withstand the journey, and multiple promises of _being careful_ had been extracted.

There hadn’t been so much concern over one stupid leg in the past ten years. While heartwarming to be the target of care, it was also nauseating to be considered incapable.

There were many deer present in the woods surrounding the outcropping. Half a dozen had walked past paying no mind to the human hunched in a deer stand, four walls and a roof sheltering him from the wind. They’d shy from his odor, but the wind was blowing in the wrong direction for that. Too, he’d changed into clothes stored away from the house, washed in scentless soaps.

A massive buck, nearly thirty points on the antlers, slid into the clearing. A small collection of does clustered in its shadow, eyes watchful, ears dancing. The quiet breeze shifted direction, bringing a faint susurration of heavy hardware from Havre’s direction. Heads rose, ears redirected, distracted.

Leif used the distraction, setting down the rifle in favor of his old reliable. The large buck sensed a disturbance against the wind, turning a haughty glare towards the source of disturbance. Leif’s focus sharpened, taking in the brilliant eyes. He pulled the trigger.

The Canon AE1’s shutter clicked. Aperture settings ensured the visible light highlighted the deer’s statuesque figure, light tan fur growing thick on its burly shoulders. The focal point of the image, or so he hoped, was the dark eyes, how they gleamed in the shade as if staring through all barriers into an observer’s very soul.

More ears twitched at the sound, and again as its mechanical film advancement ratcheted under Leif’s thumb. He took a second shot, then a third. As he took a fourth picture, the big buck shook itself, and glided into the trees, sun-dappled shadows blending over its fur in moments.

Leif watched it go, wearing a fond smile he likely didn’t realize was showing. _‘Old George. Still around, and popular, looks like.’_

The camera made a descent to the small resting place, from which it would be withdrawn at the end of the day. His rifle rose once more, its fel purpose evident in every line.

_‘You get a pass old man, but not everyone does.’_

This time Leif scanned the trees with sober intent, putting aside the day’s confusion in favor of the present. More animals teemed the woods than almost any other part of the property, the benefit of having the food reserve farmland represented beside cover, untouched by developers for over two centuries. If one were observant, they could predict where potential prey lurked.

Chickadees darted past, bobbing flight carrying them from branch to branch as their characteristic sound rang clear. Far towards the lake he could hear loons calling, while chipmunks made their frantic last-minute preparations. Inside the week, he knew the little mammals would be invisible, tucked underground with vast food stores.

Leaning back, he could see at least two hawks patrolling above, keeping their distance from the liminal settlement. He’d witnessed the flying bird woman twice, spinning out towards the predators. It had to be a game of some sort, but one the wildlife failed to appreciate.

More crunching steps caught his ears’ attention. A second herd approached, more wary than their predecessors.

Leif evaluated their number. There were two visible, and the faint movements of another three.

 _‘Not the first,’_ he noted the young appearance of the foremost specimen. _‘Gravid. Let her grow up a bit, have a few more fawns. Second one’s possible; older. But there’s more ….’_

He waited. Patient, unmoving, qualities that served anyone well but were invaluable to a hunter. His forbearance was rewarded by the appearance of two more deer, more cautious than the others.

 _‘That one.’_ Leif focused on the last deer, noting its antlers and overall bulk. Scars could be seen on its shoulders, and a pronounced limp reduced its movements to a mistrustful stalk. _‘One buck, two doe – have to check what the elves got so far.’_

The tip of his rifle extended from the hide, tracking the deer. Leif waited until he had a clear shot, exhaled a slow breath, and feathered the trigger.

A sharp crack broke the silence. Wildlife scattered, but in the halfhearted sensation that only true rural areas could demonstrate. Local birds rose from the trees, only to settle down a short distance away, and while the deer scattered, it was in bounding leaps into the underbrush.

His target, the buck, made a similar leap, but staggered as it did so.

Leif watched it. He didn’t bother firing again; a quick reflex shot would work for some, but was not necessary the way he’d been taught.

A few heartbeats later, the deer collapsed, in sight of the stand. Leif waited until all movement had ceased, then clambered down. Favoring his bad leg took extra time, but this was a sunny Fall morning, in late November. He could take things slow.

Cautious, he approached the still form. This was the most dangerous point of any hunt, a wounded animal had nothing left to lose, would do _anything_ for a few more seconds of life. Circling around until he had a clear line of sight, he fired a second shot through the heart, a small hole appearing next to where the first shot had penetrated.

The body twitched, but otherwise did not move, and Leif relaxed.

Moving again he stripped off his bright orange jacket, hanging it in a tree. The next part would be bloody, but necessary. Good thing he’d brought the big knife.

As he worked, his thoughts resumed their earlier path. _‘Messed up. Shouldn’t have gone out half asleep. Won’t happen again.’_

The train of thought lead back to his state of mind in the barn itself, the subjects that had kept him up all night. Of family that had never returned. _‘Gone on to live their own lives. Forget the promises to come back.’_

His knife made a rough cut. Leif scowled, steadying his hand. _‘They all promised. Just gone for a while. Until after college. Earn a few years full-time wages, then come back and invest. Liars.’_

 _‘Careful, keep track of the blade.’_ The diaphragm provided no resistance to sharpened steel. His own hand would provide even less. _‘Good. Can’t blame ‘em really. No point running a ranch if your heart ain’t in it. What’s it say? Where your treasure is, there is your heart also. Guess that means they’re where they want to be.’_

Squatting and lifting with the powerful muscles of his thighs wasn’t an option. But Leif still managed to hang up the carcass, rope looped around a tree limb to let the body drain. _‘This site is done for a week at least. Better bag the next doe out on the other ridge. Or down by the lake. Hope there aren’t centaurs there – could make hunting difficult.’_

The thought of careless hunters made Leif give an involuntary shudder. _‘Fools would take a pot shot at a walking human. A centaur? Four legs and lots of hide? Idiots._ ’

Crunching leaves drew his attention. Leaves in the tree-filled segment of his property had already dropped their leaves, early though it might be considered by those in more southern latitudes. Alarm shot through Leif’s system. _‘Not a mountain lion, too loud. Deer? No. Hunter? Not legally ….’_ His gaze dropped to the unloaded firearm at his side. _‘Dang.’_

A spare figure emerged from the trees, clad in blue overalls and flannel shirt. Piercing gray eyes, deep set in a narrow face caught Leif’s attention.

“Gramps.” He resumed looking for his coat, then picked it up. “Hunting?”

The old man hefted his own rifle, giving a small shrug at the same time. “Still not doing that Optimal Ratio?”

“Eh.” Leif gave his own shoulders a lift. They’d grown stiff in the hours-long vigil. “No need. Less management. Better blood.”

Gramps hawked, spitting into the tall grass. “Hear ya. Over in Pembleton they got a few farms doin’ one-to one buck-doe. Lots o’ deer.” Disgust enveloped his features. “Buncha misfits.”

Leif gave a considering look to the features of his kill. “Wouldn’t mind keeping numbers down a little more. Elves are helpin’ there.”

Gramps expression soured. “Yeah. Real lollapalooza. I’ll be goin.’”

Leif quirked an eyebrow as the older man spun away, marching into the underbrush. “What happened?”

The old man paused, then started walking again before stopping. Then he started off once more, before grinding to a halt, resembling nothing more than an old truck with engine trouble. After a few more strides, the spriggan spun around, glaring. “You know who’s down there?”

“Nope.” Leif settled back.

“I’ll tell you who,” his voice descended into an enraged growl. “ _Missus_ Lithlinede.”

It took a moment for realization to set in.

“Wait.” The name registered. “Red’s ma?”

“Damn straight!” Gramps jerked his head aside, sending a glob of saliva into the trees. Leif noticed its inhuman accuracy, and the small divot left in a standing boulder. “The ….” He regained control, breathing hard through his nose. “Aredhel’s ma. Her.”

Leif sank back. “Oh.”

An indeterminable growl shredded its way through the old man’s throat. “And now she _wants to talk to me_.”

Gratitude for a comparative shorter lifespan flowed through Leif’s soul. _‘At least when I go it won’t be with a couple centuries practice.’_

All he could think to do though was remain silent.

The old man sat down, then rose again. Anger quivered through his every feature. “The dame thinks she can just drop in an’ chew the fat? Like nothin’ happened?”

“Careful,” Leif leaned against a tree, letting the weight ease off his leg. “Don’t want a stroke at your age.”

Gramps snorted. “Got a good century left, if’n not two.”

“Still ain’t good for your health.” Leif opined. “Course, not that I know what’s good for liminals.”

“Hah.” Gramps closed his eyes, breathing deep. “Ain’t much different, ‘sides a little hardware, mebbe a little different way to fool around.” One eye slit open, looking sideways at Leif. “Heard you were canoodling with a filly in the barn.”

This time it was Leif’s turn to exhibit his frustration through expectoration. “Pah. Didn’t sleep a wink last night. Got up early, take care ‘o the horses. Started currying … figured out too late one of ‘em was Sophette.”

A snigger heralded a distinct lack of sympathy. “Doll dizzy you ain’t. But it ain’t everyone who’s got a buncha khaki wacky dames huntin’ him down.”

Leif tried stemming the headache by pinching the bridge of his nose. “Gramps. English, please.”

“Gonna get in a collie-shangle, eh?” a mischievous glint was in the older man’s eye. “Ain’t gonna try the jammiest bits ‘o jam?”

“I _know_ you’re old Gramps!” Leif squeezed his eyes shut too, hoping it would help. “You’re about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine.”

Thin shoulders rose and fell, unrepentant. “True.”

A long pause stretched as Leif stared back at the ranch house. From this vantage point the individuals were invisible; the house itself was hard to discern as anything but a brighter patch of regular lines in a collection of asymmetrical borders. On a clear day, a man could see forty miles – eighty if he was keen-eyed. Even so, Kitzscher was in easy eyesight, a small town less than five hundred citizens. From this height it was a smear of discoloured blobs on the regular patterns of fields and country roads. It had been large enough for a local school, before the county had shut it down.

Without thinking, a long sigh heaved from the depths of his chest.

Alert, Gramps turned, following the younger man’s line of sight. “Ah. Family?”

Leif didn’t respond, inhaling a long, slow breath. Neither commented on the faint quavering component audible in its depths.

The spriggan’s ears twitched, pointed ears, now that Leif paid attention to them. Not as much as an elf, but more than normal humans. “We’re alone out here. Told ‘em I’d take care o’ security.”

Dead silence was his response.

“Larsen,” Gramps settled on a fallen tree. “You have to talk to someone. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Leif cut back towards the old-looking man, a sense of defeat already present. “Already did.”

“Hm?” Gramps tilted his head.

“Left. You did.”

“How?”

The young rancher slumped. “Gramps is gone. Old man Knudtsen. World War Two vet. Neighbor. Honest man. Gone.”

“Oh.” A raspy chuckle came from the old man’s chest. He stopped as a pair of tufted titmice landed nearby, each less than a handspan long and utterly fearless. One hopped closer, landing on Gramp’s knee, gray-blue feathers contrasting with the worn denim. Both fluttered back when he moved, but moved closer again as he grew still.

“Don’t blame you.” He was quiet, watching the birds as they in turn watched him. “Whole world’s turned on its ear. But mebbe I can take a guess?”

Leif stirred, but failed to move.

“Near as I can tell,” Gramps held out a finger. “Your folks moved out years ago. Needed someone to run the farm. I remember the day they left. Young Heinrich was cryin’ when you wasn’t looking. Melody too.”

One of the birds took a chance, landing on the extended finger. Its perch remained rock steady. “Forget which of you kids left first. But there were three still there by then. Guessin’ they said the same thing? Promised to come back? Help out when they could?”

No emotion showed on Leif’s face. He gave a single nod.

“Figgered.” Gramps moved slow, reaching into one pocket, pulling out a small handful of sunflower seeds. The titmouse leaped from the extended finger to the filled palm, seizing one of the seeds before darting away. “But they ain’t comin’ back.”

“Own lives to live,” Leif pointed out. “Their choice.”

“Yah,” Gramps agreed. “It is. But they still broke their promise. Abandoned you. Betrayed you.”

Leif froze, then turned a very slow, very _furious_ look at the old man. “Nobody betrayed nobody.”

“Emotions don’t care ‘bout logic.” Gramps fired back. “Know that much. Why you think I’m here, ‘stead of bustin’ chops with that wet rag?”

Leif’s gaze dropped to their abandoned rifles, leaning against a tree, and the hanging carcass beyond.

“Today’s just an excuse an’ you know it.” Gramps followed his eyes. He sighed. “Way I see it, you’re thinkin’ so long as you’re pluggin’ along, mebbe they’ll come back.”

The look he received for that comment made his hands rise defensively. “Just a theory, mind. But you’re one o’ the hardest working folk east of the Rockies. Work hasta be done. Don’t mean it gotta be done _now.”_

Leif stared at him a few moments more, then shook his head. “I’m good. Got the ranch. If the family comes back, fine. If not, I’ve got all I need. Settin’ up a Will, just in case, too.”

Gramps sat up, dropping the birdseed. The birds scattered. “You done _what?”_

Leif rose, checking the deer’s carcass. It was close to dry, almost ready for butchering in a day or two. He turned back. “A Will. Last Will and Testament? Getting’ things set up so if’n I pop my clogs, the folks over at the Old Stead – _Havre_ – can still stay.”

The old man stared, jaw dropped open. “What’ve they _done_ to you boy?”

Leif rose, using his cane to maintain balance. “Reality, old timer. Just reality.”

* * *

Leif managed to shoot another two deer before sunset, and strapped them onto the ATV them next to the first. Tradition demanded a party for a successful hunt. In turn, he celebrated as he always had: triple helpings of the preserves laid down a few weeks prior, on top of what the MRE labels insisted to be bread. By texture and long experience in baking for one, it felt to be shoe leather. But it held together, and supported strawberry preserves well, even if its flavor lacked any semblance to what the word meant.

 _‘No wonder the soldier boys are so tough,’_ he masticated another mouthful of bland pseudo-bread, beneath the mouthwatering preserves. _‘They want the whole thing over so they can get back to real food.’_

Finished with his repast, Leif climbed back onto the four-wheeler, riding low with the additional dead weight. His leg twinged, but didn’t react in any greater fashion – frustrating though it had been, he’d taken things slow and avoided exacerbating the injury.

The engine turned over, twin headlights turning the dusk into something slightly less dark, and he was off once more.

Unlike the usual machine he drove, this was a larger vehicle. The Polaris RZR series had a reputation for many things, but the part necessary for an individual of his circumstances was all that mattered: It had a semi-enclosed cabin, and a cargo carrier. Both were essential for a rancher in a state where winter winds could slice through wool like a fire hose through a group of entitled urchins.

It was no use looking at the sky. Until the month moved on a little, it was too early for the moon but too late for the sun. The cloud cover gave a few hints, but overcast everything in a wet haze. For now he’d have to be content with remembering what it had been like earlier, and have confidence in his own predictions.

_‘Gonna be late.’_ He checked the speedometer, analyzing its accuracy. _‘Pretty good. Should be back by eight-ish.’_

Trails through the Larsen properties were poorly maintained, but they existed. An idiot looking at a prairie assumed a straight path in every direction. An even greater specimen of stupidity would presume that descending from a hillside to the flatlands would be linear – one did not grow up relying on himself by making such judgements.

Leif followed the trail’s dogleg turn, retreating half the progress he’d made eastward, but gaining distance northward. The lesser traveled routes looked more like depressions in the soil, but were clear of bushes and trees.

Reaching the flatland he _could_ accelerate, but only a small amount. Gravel roads were excellent places to maximize efficiency – but even flat ground had its dips and rises. Plus he had cargo, which needed handling.

Sighing Leif throttled up another three miles per hour, weaving a sinuous path along a high ridge. To the West, he could see Grandfather’s Shoulder; to the East the entire expanse of the Great Plains stretched out before him. Southeast held no civilization, only the Kobernick’s had lived there, and they’d vanished long ago. He knew of their presence only by family legend and the house shuttered out by itself, next to an overgrown gravel patch.

The path swooped down into a lower layer, and wound back up again. Then it repeated itself. Each time the rise came to a lower height, the land’s acknowledgement of the once tributary that had flowed through Larsen lands.

Leif coasted downhill, powering through the upward slopes until just before the crest, easing off on the accelerator to make low-gravity sensations in his gut. It took practice, but was a secret pleasure, one that the dogs couldn’t stand.

Grinning like a loon, he sailed down the next slope and started up the next. On the way up the left front tire found a badger hole, jouncing the vehicle sideways, throwing his pocket knife onto the floor. It slid towards the side of his foot, angled so that the next down slope would send it underneath the brake.

Grumbling, Leif leaned down to pick it up. Then wondered why a cold breeze was suddenly whipping at his face.

Sitting upright again, he noticed several things.

First, the latest ridge – which was just a hill if he were honest – far more visible than before.

Second, a cold wind was going through where the windshield had been.

Third, his hat felt like someone had yanked on the end, pulling it half off.

He let the ATV roll over the hill top, coasting down the other side. It was a straight enough route, and had nothing to hit for perhaps a mile in any direction. He took off his hat, feeling it through gloves.

In the darkness there was only a bit of illumination from the headlight’s washback, but even in that dim lighting showed a massive tear in his stocking cap. It ran from the back left through to the front, but along the side, as if something had sliced his hat while he was wearing it.

Any humor fell from Leif’s face. He spun in the seat, stomping on the brake. There, just where his head sat, was a starburst hole over an inch in diameter.

_‘Gunshot. Almost killed me. If I hadn’t been leaning – over – that …’_

He slapped the headlights off and gunned the engine. The vehicle jumped forward like a startled Whitetail, accelerating in a fashion outside the manual’s accepted limitations.

 _‘To hell with safety. Someone took a shot at me!’_ he slewed the Polaris around, taking it away from the track’s linear progression. As the vehicle rose above the surrounding prairie once more, he ducked.

A second shot brushed through the back windshield, connecting fracture lines with the first. What was left of the windshield crackled under the second assault, dropping chunks of plastic inside the vehicle. Then the frame was descending below the horizon, and more rounds would need to penetrate a dozen yards of Prairie sod, and the fibrous root systems that dulled modern steel plow blades with regularity.

Once below the skyline, Leif twisted the vehicle to one side, travelling along the low point’s depths. After a few seconds he jerked the ATV back, roaring through underbrush, crashing through sage and tall grass alike.

If another shot came his way he couldn’t hear it. But after clearing a small clump of trees, he took a moment to pop open the circuit box just under the steering column, and yanked the brake lights connection. _‘kay, now I can brake without lighting up everything like a Christmas tree. Options.’_

Slamming the machine into four wheel drive, Leif pushed the throttle all the way over. Under his guidance the small machine’s engine throbbed a deeper pitch, all four tires biting into the ground. Clods of earth flew into the air as he began to slalom his way back towards the ranch house through the lowest areas a prairie could offer.

 _‘Right out in the open.’_ There was little point hiding his goal, so Leif made for the ranch house by the most direct route possible, while taking advantage of the rolling land. _‘Snipers. This was planned out. What else they got? Rockets?’_

Temptation lurked in the form of his own rifle. While it lacked the scope for now, it did retain enough stopping power to drop a mule deer. In all arrogance, he was a good enough shot, too. Brief moments passed as he considered, the ATV’s tires slowing. Then reality struck, and the same tires spat chunks of rich loam as they accelerated. _‘Nope. Might be friendlies out there. Don’t have the advantage here. Maybe if my leg were back to a hundred percent ….’_

Grumbling occupied his thoughts for the rest of the trip. No further shots were fired in his direction, so far as he could tell. Yet he encountered no allies, despite knowing the elves, dryads and centaurs had permission to travel the entire property. The elves possessed spectacular night vision, and at least _one_ of the liminal factions kept patrols in his general vicinity at all times. Against his wishes perhaps, but about now would’ve been useful for a team to show up.

 _‘Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em,’_ he grumped. _‘Still … prefer this to being followed all over.’_

Unwilling, his thoughts turned to the spriggan that had visited his hunting site a few short hours before. _‘He spying on me? Shoot, has he been playing neighbor all this time?’_

Disturbing didn’t begin to cover his agitation. _‘Neighbors don’t spy. Keep an eye on each other, sure. But spy?’_

Another burst of frustration sent the throttle upwards, then back down. _‘No road rage. Gotta keep safe. Gotta get back. How far out?’_

It was going to be a long drive.

_‘Maybe one of those radios would be a good idea.’_

He’d have to see. If the liminals could change for the general welfare, maybe he could too. _‘Debatable, but possible.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!


	16. response

The Polaris roared into the ranch house drive, all-weather tires gaining traction in bursts. Leif leaned on the horn, sending its high-pitched wail into the air. It’d been an installation Lena had made, the only girl in a family of boys. While not as impressive-sounding as it could’ve been, its utility had been of universal agreement, keening like the banshee of old.

Rather than undertake the standard gradual deceleration one would make, Leif pulled a bootlegger’s turn. Only the somewhat icy terrain made it possible on a vehicle designed for traction. Despite the assist, the ATV shuddered during the sliding reversal like a spastic reaction. He hung on to the steering column, bracing his good knee against the storage tub underneath. That did enough to keep him stable during the maneuver, slewing into position just outside the front porch.

Leif yanked the keys free. Ice-laden wind had been blowing in his face for the past ten miles, kept at bay solely through grit and a balaclava kept inside the vehicle’s storage. He wasn’t sure the last time it’d been washed, but it had done the job.

The ranch door burst open as he hopped free. The stitches were intact, but at this point he was so cold there wasn’t much pain anywhere.

Aredhel came flying out the doorway. “Larsen! What happ – your windshield? Roanette! Larsen is hurt!”

Leif flung his arm at her, waving it with manic intensity. “Get back! Shooters!”

The elf skidded to a stop, and then was promptly smashed aside by Roanette’s adrenaline-fueled charge. A nimbus of dark hair flew about the centauride’s face, concern written on every feature, ignoring the svelte woman, whom was already turning her backwards tumble into a rolling somersault.

“Leif!” she skidded to a halt beside him. “Are you –“

He made a futile effort at pushing her back. He might as well have tried lifting a cathedral. She hoisted his weight in one arm, running her other hand over his limbs as if checking for injuries. Leif was pretty certain there was no need to squeeze certain portions of his anatomy with such thoroughness. Was that a centaurian method of flirting? No – what was he thinking?

“Back Ro’, _back_! Sniper!”

There was no hesitation. Roanette hugged him close to her body, wheeling around on two back hooves, running for the doorway. He had a brief moment before her front legs touched down again to recall the swiftness exhibited by the centaurs fleeing Gramps’ a few days prior.

The sheer velocity involved felt as if the coat was about to be torn from his torso. There was a sense of bunched up muscles, and the pressure Roanette was applying, pressing him _hard_ against herself; the security he could appreciate. Her willingness to protect him by placing her own body in between danger and himself was sacrificial in the truest sense of the word.

But was it necessary that she shove his face into her chest?

Aredhel was already scanning the perimeter. He glimpsed her face’s expression, an almost terrifying rictus of anger and pain. Then he was inside, bundled towards the center of the house.

Aredhel ducked inside, slamming the thick door behind her. The bar, relic of ancient times, dropped into place. The crossbeams hadn’t been well maintained – who would need such a thing in the modern era? – and Leif wasn’t sure how well they’d hold. But for now it was a solid, thick-timbered door, braced by an equally solid support.

As soon as his feet touched the ground once more, Leif limped into the central hallway. Its length stretched half the house, rooms opening to either side. As the northern side of the house, it had been built with the cold North winds in mind; extra insulation and thicker walls. There were even shutters, although their original function hadn’t been used in years outside of the infrequent blizzard while company visited.

_‘Gotta check on those,’_ Leif added to his mental checklist. _‘Might need ‘em this winter.’_

“Leif,” Roanette was shadowing him at close range. “What happened?”

Belated, he pulled off the balaclava, shaking out the itchy sensation from his hair. “Was out huntin’, coming back from Grandfather’s Shoulder. Something shot out my windshield from the back, took three shots. No accident.”

Aredhel’s hand shot to a slim device never before used inside Leif’s home: a cell phone. Her fingers blurred across the touchpad before raising it to one long ear. “Agent Wesson? Aredhel Lithlinede. There was an assassination attempt on Larsen. Yes. We’re just getting that now.”

Without prompting Leif pointed back in the same direction he’d started that afternoon. “About three hours west, close to the southern border. Where’s the map?”

Fanchon slipped in, holding the desired bit of unfolded paper. He’d have to think of some way to thank her.

“Thanks.” He traced the route with a finger “Yeah. About here. Shooter had to be in this direction.”

Aredhel craned her neck over his shoulder, then started reciting coordinates. She listened after a moment, and nodded. “Of course. His safety is our highest priority.”

A grunt waged a sudden war with Leif’s voice control. It lost a miserable defeat as Leif felt Roanette move closer, a protective arm still resting on his shoulder. He reached up, squeezing her hand once, then letting go.

“Listen,” he waited until Aredhel put down the device. “All of you stay here tonight. Plenty o’ room, thick walls. Aright?”

There were no objections.

* * *

Certain facts concerning ongoing activities at his home had escaped the running processes of Leif’s brain. There were lamia in the basement, courteous and willing to let him bunk there for the night, as well as a contingent of high-security specialists protecting what was by all intents a foreign dignitary. Two heavy transports sat in the yard’s drive, no doubt chuffing at the very thought of their beloved potentate remaining in any proximity to danger.

That individual’s presence had made no impact on Leif’s memory. There was a vague recollection of visiting dignitaries, and a specific memory involving elves and the ambassador’s e-mail. But the process eluded active thought, until facing him in his own home, glinting gemstones and expensive silks, covered in mink fur.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Larsen.” The elegant, manicured hand was offered to Leif, palm down. “My daughter is most impressed with your conduct and character.”

_‘That’s her.’_ Leif stared at the woman, then down at her hand. _‘The one that broke Gramps’ heart. Don’t know the story … but Gramps never let me down.’_

“Pleasure.” He reached out, gripping her hand in a firm handshake, pumped twice and released. “Miss Lithlinede’s a good guest. Excuse me?”

He turned away, swapping hands to maneuver the cane better. Down in the basement there were sections of stone laid down in early days, but most was covered in a concrete base. The far more level material supported enough hardware to support a large family in the middle of Montana’s more remote districts for _years_. Canned goods, cider makers, even an ancient washing machine dating back to the prior century could be found there.

“While my daughter is impressed, I must say _I_ am not.” The elf’s withering tone ricocheted off Leif’s attention like pebbles on his truck. “Will you not maintain polite discourse?”

Leif paused, and turned just enough to see the elf’s visage. According to both Gramps and Aredhel, the woman had to be ninety years old at least, but could’ve pulled off the look of a mature thirty-year old. He ignored her features and delivered a hard glare, needing only to summon the irritation brought by life in the past few months. “Sure. I got two words for you: Ulfric Knudtsen.”

He left her standing there, mouth hanging open, and kept going. A large table a dozen feet away was his goal, and sanctuary. Maps lay spread across its surface, satellite images emerging with agonizing slowness from a printer someone had installed; he supposed there should be some form of outrage, but almost receiving delivery of the infamous lead treatment put things in perspective. Without asking, two elves cleared a chair for him, in which he sat, studying the materials.

“Tracks have been located here and here,” Fanchon pointed at the relevant areas on the closest map. Gone were her frilly dresses of lace and sheer fabric. Instead she wore jeans and … a flannel shirt? Leif wasn’t objecting, but he was beginning to wonder where everyone was getting their fashion sense. “Neko squads with thermal cams have been deployed here. Two elf platoons are waiting at the barn, backed by a company of centaurs.”

He dredged up old memories of combat history, and made a quick calculation. “A hundred and thirty soldiers?”

Fanchon twisted around the table. “Two hundred, in fact. Havre is on full alert right now, the Golden Hills Electronic Countermeasures group is working with Agent Wesson in present drone scans. M.O.N. has four helicopters in the air right now, and I believe it took Ms. Yidderman’s influence to prevent a pair of fighter/bombers from performing a flyover.”

Leif shuddered. He could hear the sounds of helicopters roaming about, even in the depths of a cellar built when people meant to keep things secure. Back when supersonic flights were common, the resulting boom could make the glassware rattle on the shelves.

“Anyone call the neighbors?”

Aredhel approached from the far side. “Not as yet, my Lord.” Her meaningful look tracked above Leif’s shoulder for an instant, before returning. “The current orders forbid contact until after the Exchange is given official sanction.”

He restrained from more colorful language. “So … shooter’s out there, and the neighbor’s don’t know.”

“That is the decision as handed down.” Aredhel set the next printout down. “I make no decisions, sire.”

A low growl emanated from deep in his chest, quelled by the knowledge of witnesses. “Talk to Ro’. Tell her to get Alynette in gear. Earl’s smart.”

“I will seek her out in person.” Aredhel made an elegant bow, slipping away as soon as his attention lapsed. He was still able to catch the elf’s mother make a vain attempt to catch her daughter’s eye. The two hadn’t spoken much, in his sight.

He went back to studying the maps, searching for a shooter’s hiding place. There were too many of them, far too many. But there was a chance his knowledge could rule out the least likely positions, or highlight spots more likely than others.

Just as he finished marking up the last segment, he became aware of a presence. Looking down, he saw large, soulful eyes peering up at him.

Sighing, Leif put the pen down. “Sorry girl.”

The Border collie’s tail thumped.

“Yeah,” he rubbed her ears, tousling the short hairs just behind them. “Interestin’ day.”

Agreement shone in the dog’s eyes.

“Eugene and Scheherazade all right?” Leif straightened, looking around the basement. “Ah.”

In one corner, the other two dogs were sitting on what could only be described as miniature thrones, made of pillows. Two of the three lamia seemed to think it their purpose in this existence to massage the canines, to which there seemed no disagreement. The appearance of their lolling tongues, half-closed eyes and furiously wagging tails brought a smile to his face. _‘Haven’t been giving them enough work to do lately.’_

“So.” Another presence hovered at his back. By now he’d learned to recognize the individuals by species, even if the specific person was a little harder to discern. This presence hovered a touch farther than the usual suspects, and only one person had addressed him since descending into the basement. Leif made a quarter turn, fixing the elf with a neutral look. “Need somethin’?”

This time he took the time to examine Aredhel’s mother. As he’d observed before, her appearance could’ve passed for someone far younger – an interesting point to bring up with his guest at some point. This woman’s height looked similar, violet eyes and a more golden hue to her hair than Aredhel’s, but the body was similar. If he hadn’t known better the woman could’ve passed as Aredhel’s older sister.

“Finished yet?” she arched an angular eyebrow at him. “I am not one of your cattle, _Mister_ Larsen.”

If she’d meant the honorific as an insult, it slid over his awareness. He’d never say it, but the thought did cross his mind. _‘If I had one as contrary as you, she’d be off for Hamburger Helper.’_

“Good.”

“I am aware of your association with Mister Knudtsen,” she hovered as if preparing for a vicious rebuttal. Receiving none, she continued. “In time, would you be willing to hear my side of the event before passing judgement?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know you. Not impressed so far; not disappointed either.”

That was half a lie – but didn’t count. Disappointment was a mild euphemism for the disgust held deep behind mental shields. _‘Not lying, bein’ diplomatic.’_

“That is all I ask.” She gave a sort of regal half-nod. It was unlike the deep formality her daughter had evinced before, but the basic similarity was present, as if between a superior and her underling. She gave the sort-of curtsey one of his older aunts had been fond of using, and backed away. “I will inquire after the progress of this distressing event.”

With her departure, Leif was left alone at the table, watching the lamia pamper his dogs. Meanwhile, Dunyazade stayed at his side, leaning into his uninjured leg. He rubbed her back absentmindedly, wishing there was a window. Such a thing would negate the value of cover, in a structure dug before cellar windows became popular. Outside the sun had fallen hours prior, leaving the fields drowning in shadows from the partial moon, which meant supper and bedtime under normal circumstances.

He closed his eyes. Hunger held no hold over him, even slumber’s attractiveness was muted to near intangible qualities. Rubbing his eyes, Leif pulled another map closer. If he wasn’t going to sleep, he’d need to work.

* * *

Hours after he heard a stamping in the entry overhead. It sounded as if a clumsy, if miniature, giant were approaching.

It took a moment before Leif realized a human was descending the stairs. _‘Really? Is the difference that much?’_

He listened again. The sound of patent leather shoes had a recognizable sound, unlike the soft noises of the neko, and entirely different from how elves tended to glide around. A centaur would _clop_ , rubber-shod or not. This meant human, and the most frequent human visitor was Wesson. Unless it was Gramps, improbable though that might be for the moment.

He focused on the maps once more. A pair of compasses rested on the table before him, both the magnetic version and the old set once used someone’s geometry class. Beside them rested a notebook, filled with his neat, precise handwriting. Equations filled its visible pages, dark ink outlining multiple figures and sketches.

“Larsen? Got a minute?”

He waved at a chair pulled against the table’s far side. “Sec.”

Leif’s peripheral vision caught movement as the agent slid into place. But his concentration rested on the paper before him. With one hand he tapped out a numeric sequence on an old calculator, recording the numbers on the paper. He double checked, then cracked open a book resting beside him to a marked page, refreshing his memory. _‘Tangent over angle. Right.’_

Another quick calculation and he was able to return to the topographical map, laying down the protractor to make a tiny mark in pencil, following it up with a light line sketched onto the map.

Finishing he straightened, leaning backwards, lifting his shoulders to corresponding crackles of vertebrae. “Right. What you need?”

Wesson sat there, glancing down at the collected books sitting on the table, beside a box of ammunition and calculator. “Larsen, what are you doing?”

He stretched out an arm, working the kinks out of the shoulder. “Fixin’ to see where that shooter was.”

Wesson raised an eyebrow. “How?”

“Waelp,” Leif paused. “Right. I’m no forensic specialist. But I know a bit. See, I know I was shot goin’ over a ridge here, here and here,” he pointed at bright red markings on the map. “And that’s the altitude. Plus, most common shot out here is three-aught-eight, for big game. Best range around three hundred yards, bullet drop sixteen inches maybe? But this is at night. Maybe half that.”

Wesson’s eyebrow was rising higher, joined by its partner. “So you’re calculating … original location.”

Leif moved back to the map. “I was headed this way. Shot went back to front. Maybe more shooters, maybe just one. Put a cone out from the three points …” he gestured at the markings on the map. “Put the shooter inside five hundred feet, hidden at my altitude or a bit lower, and I found a few places he might’ve been hiding.”

The agent brought his hands together in a slow clap. “Bravo. Better be careful though, all that brainwork might force Miss Lithlinede to jump your bones if you’re not too careful. Aredhel – you’re drooling.”

Puzzled, Leif looked back to see an affronted looking elf wiping her mouth, then catching his glance and turning red. It was a mortified expression but also … focused. Very focused. Like the chess match they’d shared during the blizzard, only amplified by factors he didn’t want to consider. Underneath the embarrassment she gave him a burning glance.

Leif spun back in his seat, and flipped the notebook shut. Somewhere behind and to one side, a large set of lungs let out an amused chuff. He ignored that too.

“I’m surprised you haven’t gone out there guns blazing,” Wesson leaned back in the chair. “You have enough firepower in this house to arm a squad at the least.”

Glad of the distraction, Leif snorted. “Stitched up, dark out, someone taking pot shots? Not a dang fool.”

“Of course.” Wesson agreed. “And … having a centauride standing in front of the staircase, armed to the teeth does nothing either?”

Another quick glance showed the sable haired centauride standing at the base of the stairs, arms folded. At the top of the stairs another set of four legs could be seen, gun belt trailing into view down the stairs. He hadn’t known such lengths were available for public use.

He hunched his shoulders, head dipping. It took a long moment before honesty won out. “Maybe.”

The agent’s eyes crinkled at the corners. Thankfully he said nothing. “Well, it turns out you’re right. We found shell casings on a spot about two hundred feet from that first rise, and tracks leading back to a dirt bike. There’s three choppers set up on a search pattern, and I have an entire _clan_ of kobold running down the trail.”

“Kobold?” Leif hadn’t heard the term before. “They new?”

“Well, to you maybe.” Wesson found a glass beer stein of something bubbling at his elbow. “Thank you.”

Fanchon delivered a slight bow, and retreated.

“Best analogy, werewolf without the angst.” The beverage in the agent’s beer stein frothed as he took a long draft, leaving foam on his upper lip. “The usual order of species introduction is shot to hell, but they were up there on the list. Great trackers, strong believers in physical prowess. Plus the nose they got is better than anything but a bloodhound – easier to talk too, too.”

Leif edged to one side, making room for the female neko as she approached him from behind. The tankard she handed him was filled with a fizzing liquid that lacked the same alcoholic properties he could smell from across the table. “Thanks.”

“It looks like a part of the group smuggling the lamia.” Wesson raised his beer stein to the three sitting across the floor, all looking in his direction. “With the information we got from the coyotes earlier, plus what we found from the _esteemed_ Mr. Olsen, there are wheels moving.”

One of the lamia, larger than the other two, scarlet hair trailing to her waist slid closer. “Your pardon. But you are saying that the people that took my sisters and I are hunting us still?”

Wesson rose, a comforting smile promising much. “They seek Mister Larsen, actually.”

“Who is protecting us, a favor which cannot be repaid,” the lamia – _Rica_ Leif remembered – gave a low bow in his direction. “But if our presence is causing a threat to the community, we should find other grounds.”

“The security provided for his ranch is in its infancy, and only growing as time progresses.” Wesson approached closer, a rocking motion in his step Leif hadn’t seen before. But it seemed to reassure the lamia as much, or moreso, than his words. “The centaurs and elves are on high alert, and the full resources of the Inter-Species Initiative are dedicated to the punishment of these criminals.”

A second lamia joined the first, brown hair still ragged ends. “They are pretty words, but our people are often the target of exploitation.”

Though curious, Leif refrained from asking questions.

“True.” The agent’s expression didn’t change, but his bearing looked … sorrowful. “Your skill with drugs is second to none, your beauty unmatched and the connection you share with cold-blooded masters of the ground encourage underhanded tactics. But where else would you suggest you stay? Lord Larsen’s home is ancient and strong, protected on all sides by an army that will have the power to work in the open within days. Can you go elsewhere and receive the same protection?”

Rica’s tongue made an appearance, forked end tasting the air. “Truth, you speak, and speak well for us you have. But … you know our nature. We are a caring race, a people that do not mind sharing our mates.”

Leif froze.

“Lord Larsen would be a good mate. Strong. Brave. Indomitable and with such _handssss_ …” the sentence drifted into a sibilant-heavy vernacular that seemed to amuse the other two.

Wesson laughed with them and hissed something back.

Rica sank lower, reducing her height to look up at the agent. “Yesss, had we been here earlier that would have been possible. But we can see he is shy. We can see his heart is taken. But he helped save us, deliver us from ssslavery? No. We will not cause dishonor by seeking his essence. Of course, if he should asssk ….”

Somehow Wesson managed to look regretful while Leif felt closer to a statue. “Do you have any requests? I believe waiting until the Exchange is open would suit both purposes well, before moving.”

“Yes,” Rica rose again, giving Leif an apologetic look. “While the comfort here is wondrous, a good lair with many luxuries, we wish to see if the Doctor would host us.”

“Doctor?”

“Nilsson.” Leif supplied. It felt good to act normal, even if it didn’t feel that way. “Lives on the edge of town. Good man. Smart, too.”

“If you would, Lord.” Jen’il made a smooth gesture he gathered meant something in their native culture. “Would you tell us of Doctor Nilsson? Is he a warrior? An athlete? We wish to know of his hobbies before making a decision.”

Leif picked up his tankard, hiding his lower face behind its translucent depths. “Best ask him.”

“We tried!” Jen’il wailed. “But that pointy-eared killjoy kept blocking us!”

He looked over at Aredhel, who had the grace to look abashed. “She stopped you?” he made a show out of looking over their extended length. “Stronger than I thought.”

“She made us promise to not push.” This time Rica spoke up. “But we cannot make an appropriate overture without knowing anything about him. Please? We cannot ask any other humans; Agent Wesson keeps saying we’re abusing his authority.”

Leif shot the Asian a dirty look. Wesson smirked back at him.

“Right.” Leif took a deep breath. “Don’t know much, but here you go. The Nilsson’s moved here about forty years ago ….”

Telling stories fell outside Leif’s comfort zone. Talking for extended periods of time tried his throat and his patience. But the lamia were excellent listeners, asking intelligent questions and taking notes. It was then he had a spark of perhaps a bit of pranking genius.

“Of course,” he gave a long sigh. “That’s if you can get him to stop working.”

A look of interest flared in the lead naga’s eyes. “How so?”

“Well, you heard him that morning?” Leif tilted the chair back, watching them. “He’d been up all night, and stopped by on his way back to work. The man’s a machine.”

“ _Realllllly_ …?” the word was drawn out, almost like a song.

“Yah.” Leif looked up at the ceiling, then down at the trio of sparkling eyes. “One time I saw him hauling lumber. Fifty pounders maybe a hundred. Helpin’ Missus Weatherby stock up firewood for the winter. He’s too big for drivin’ all the time, so they asked him to haul. Thing is, they were gonna give him a wagon, but he just started liftin’ logs like they was nothin’, and didn’t quit. Kept goin’ for over twelve hours before taking a break.”

“Twelve _hours_?” Rica whispered. “How can he do that?”

Leif shrugged. “He’s built tough. Another time, I saw him facin’ down a bull. Course, he was kinda new then, just back from doc school.”

“Yes? And?”

“Well,” he took a slow drink, building the tension. “There was a bull the O’Kelly’s owned a few years back. Ornery cuss. Over a ton, prize stud, only reason they kept ‘im.”

All three gave him an eager nod.

“So this bull gets loose and here comes Nilsson, after a long night. Bull stands in the middle of the road, won’t move. Starts bellerin’ at him like he owns the whole dang thing, won’t let anyone get past. So Nilsson gets out, and walks up as bold as brass. You know what he did?”

Leif flashed a wide smile as the lamia bunched closer. “He hauls back and _socks_ the doggone bull. Right in the nose. Shouted ‘Bad Cow!’ too. Thing was so startled it started backin’ up. Then he grabs the thing’s ear and starts twisting.”

Another chuckle was amplified by the tankard as he took another drink. “After that, whenever the O’Kelly’s started havin’ trouble with that bull, they’d call Nilsson. Soon as he showed up that bull’d be on his best behavior.”

Light laughter echoed through the basement as he finished. He pulled back, sensing the trio wished to discuss other topics. _‘Good. Positive spin. They seem to like the physical side, or funny stories. He’s big, and knows more jokes than a congressman’s aide.’_

“Larsen,” Wesson murmured. “I believe it is safe upstairs for you. Could we talk?”

He sighed. “Sure. If my body guards let me?”

Roanette and Aredhel didn’t pretend to have missed hearing. They exchanged a look, filled with conversation that flew over Leif’s head. Then they both turned to Fanchon, who stood off to one side, out of the way. Her ears fluttered in surprise, but steadied. After a heartbeat, she gave a firm nod.

“Very well.” Roanette stated. “But he will stay very close to us, and will return to safety should _any_ sign of danger be presented.”

“I agree to your terms.” Wesson responded in grave tones. “Then, by your leave, Mister Larsen?”

In answer, Leif pushed away from the table. The notebook he flipped shut and dropped on his chair, noticing only from the corner of one eye how Roanette managed to pick it up by dint of body-checking Aredhel’s lightning reflexes. _‘Eager to clean? Or … no. Better not think about it.’_

Getting back up the stairs took longer than normal. His left leg, stiff from exertion, refused to function at full capacity, but served well enough. He received a helping hand from a demure Sophette, whose armament had changed from the massive generator-powered monstrosity to a much more reasonable weapon four feet long, trailing ammunition belts when she lowered it too far. One of the German light machine guns, at a guess. Leif was no gun nut after all. Or so he told himself.

“Up we get,” her bright smile encouraged Leif, as he gratefully took her extended arm. Holding the sixty pound machine gun in one arm seemed a trifle, considering she’d hefted his own not inconsiderable weight one-handed. But then her head swooped close, lips just outside Leif’s ear the better to murmur something unheard by others. “If you should need your _morale_ improved, give me a look and I’ll wait in the barn.”

The low groan Leif let out could’ve been interpreted as eagerness, despair or something in the middle. He let it sit and stepped up from the entry into the kitchen, where dishes were being sorted into cabinets by a group of alert-looking elves. Two neko stood there as well, overseeing the operation … although why there needed to be a task group to put away dishes was a mystery.

“Agent Wesson needs to speak with Lord Larsen.” Sophette stepped away from Leif to the further corner, LMG at rest.

As one the elves hurried to finish, sliding everything into place in seconds. Such cleanliness and swift skill put his own housekeeping to shame; Leif hadn’t done the laundry yet. Which was something he’d have to do whether there were snipers or not. His shirts supply was running low again.

Over to one side, sitting at a side table, was Aredhel’s mother. She had a cup of tea, and just watched. Her presence was put out of Leif’s mind as soon as possible.

Wesson entered next, followed by Aredhel. Long moments passed, much tramping and stamping coming from the stairs, along with muttered exclamations in some dialect Leif didn’t recognize. Then Roanette made an appearance, trying to look as if a quadruped of her mass hadn’t just climbed a flight of stairs designed for humans half her size.

He appreciated the effort. She hadn’t needed to accompany him below – her loyalty and dedication would be missed once she grew out of her crush. The thought sent a strange sensation through his chest, ignored as the trio gathered around the kitchen table.

“As I said, the immediate area is clear. Kobold search parties found trails leading into the next farm over, and their handler is following in a Jeep.” A tray of pastries appeared on the table, soon followed by mugs once more. “Thank you Fanchon.” Wesson picked up a doughnut and took a ferocious bite. “There were two guns used, both .30 caliber rifles, hollow point rounds. We found the scent on a ridge about four hundred feet back up the hillside, and the casings so there’s that. We _also_ found a camp sitting in the trees on what you call Grandfather’s Shoulder. It had been there about a month we suspect.”

Leif stretched to pick up a Danish, taking time to inhale the sugary goodness covering its preserve-covered surface. It smelled like strawberries and cream cheese, and felt fresh. It was still warm in his hands. “Prisoners?”

“Two stragglers,” Wesson admitted. “They’re nobodies, but knew a few places they’d been before. The kicker is that they had a bag with clothes, which have scents all over. Right now there are teams scouring the countryside, following the smell. I’ve forwarded as much information as I’ve got to analysts back at Headquarters, and they’re looking at money trails. We have credit card numbers, receipts and some _good_ intel that can be followed up on.”

“Good.” Leif took a bite. The flavor melted on his tongue, flaky crust crumbling around the tart strawberry, softened through the mellow flavor of cream cheese. “How long?”

“Ordinarily, I’d say a few weeks to a few months,” Wesson folded his hands, interlacing the fingers. “However, you have three major organizations working in your favor here. M.O.N., the Centaurs, and the Elves.” He spared a quick look at Fanchon. “Not to dismiss the Neko delegation’s capabilities, but their presence in the United States is minimal at the moment.”

“At the moment,” she agreed.

“For now,” Wesson continued. “I’d like to continue in business as usual. There are a few people I’d like you to meet, and perhaps suggest installing a security system?”

His first instinct was to refuse. The word was on his lips – but something jogged his memory. _‘I promised. Partners. My land, but can’t make a decision on safety without … damn it. What have I done?’_

Leif’s mouth snapped shut. He hesitated, then straightened. “Ro’. What’re your thoughts?”

The centauride sidestepped closer. “Muh – me?”

“Yah.” Leif looked up to meet her eyes. “Promised, didn’t I?”

Her cheeks pinked. “Thank you, Leif. About the security?”

He nodded again. “Yah.”

All hint of levity faded. “I believe you need more security than you have at present. You are no longer a farmer in Montana. You are the supervisor of a multi-national group. Their security relies on working with a known quantity: you. If something happens to you, especially at this juncture, the entire effort could be damaged for years. We would need to work with your successor, or in the worst case scenario, move location. A great many resources have been invested in your stability, sir. We just want to keep you safe.”

Leif felt the weight of the world settle on his shoulders, like a leaden harness. _‘Is this what draft horses felt like?’_

He massaged at his temples, where the pressure seemed highest. “Red?”

The elf stepped into sight. “I agree. At this stage I would suggest moving you to Havre, where every embassy could participate in your safety. But I believe the danger is low enough to mean you may be safe out here, with precautions.”

Leif considered. _‘Their safety too. Not about me, not really. I’m just a linchpin in their organization. What did Da’ call it? Like a money launderer; essential, but not permanent. But still, their safety first.’_

“What ‘bout you, Fanchon?” it took great self-control to avoid smirking at her surprised squeak. “Thoughts?”

“I believe zat you should be safe,” the neko started. She looked down, pensive at the floor. “Zis is not what I had expected, coming here. But … I would like to stay. But I would also like to stay _free_.”

The last comment struck Leif as a trifle odd, but understandable. _‘Might have some kinda contract thing. Have to talk later. But … if it walks like a duck ….’_

Once more it felt as if the ground were shifting beneath his feet. The world was changing; what could a man of the earth do but adapt?

“Right then.” He turned back to Wesson, who was looking at him with an almost astonished expression. “Nothin’ inside the house. No cameras, no microphones, no nothing. But if you want to rig some gizmos outside … guess it might be smart to do that now.”

For a full ten seconds the agent just stared, jaw working in silence. Then he started, and shot to his feet. “Thank you, Mister Larsen. I will get started on that right away. Thank you!”

Leif pursed his lips as the government man hurried towards the door. “Just a second,” he called.

Wesson turned, a look of frustration clearing from his face. “Yes?”

“Call me Leif.” The rancher felt a twinge of amusement at the agent’s gobsmacked expression. Perhaps not _everything_ about the city folk was annoying. Time would tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this is the last backlogged chapter I have. The next chapter will be released at the end of the month as usual, I believe.
> 
> Also, Bad Cow comes from a popular children's book series before it went ... modern. If you know it, you had some good times!


	17. Normality - Of a Kind

Morning came with all the subtlety of a brick through plate glass. Bright sunshine poured through Leif’s window, turning closed eyelids into a reddish-pink test of his dedication. Slumber was important, but annoyance trumped that. Winter morning came early, Daylight Savings made it even earlier, and a farmer’s schedule made acknowledging the clock’s face a mere professional courtesy at best. Slumber, that sweetest commodity, was a valuable resource for anyone … if they could manage to find it.

With a small growl he gave up trying.

Dressed and in his right mind, Leif opened his bedroom door; he must’ve been too tired to remember closing it the prior night. Electing to skip a morning shower seemed logical, he’d had one less than eight hours before, so he started his way towards the laundry room. A new day started out well when it had clean undershirts to go with it. He intended to have many good days in the future week.

Situational awareness, honed by decades of living in a realm where inattention meant lost limbs, triggered the lizard portion of his hindbrain. An oncoming aggressor, high and to the right, arrowed in for his head.

“Criminently!” Leif dove for the floor, sliding towards the laundry closet. The attacker’s buzzing grew louder overhead, ominous as he scrambled –

_‘Buzzing?’_

As his fingers closed around the handle of an awkward but weighty Tide bottle, Leif chanced a look over one shoulder.

Hovering near the ceiling, a miniature drone floated. Eight rotors hummed like an organized hornet swarm, adjusting its position on a constant basis. Something tiny, round, and reflective tilted his direction; a tiny image of a downed farmer visible in its glass lens.

He gave it a dirty look. “I’m gonna give whoever’s driving that thing five minutes to convince me _not_ to chuck this here detergent.”

The drone dipped, following him as he got up, and explored the most recent stitches with one hand – _over_ the fabric of his pants. Satisfied, Leif grunted, and pulled out the damp, wrinkled clothing from the washer. It was delivered into the dryer, a boring but necessary, much like the majority of the chores in life.

Two minutes later, the next load in the washing machine, an almighty crash came from the direction of the back door.

_‘Amazing what you can get used too,’_ Leif marveled how his hands hadn’t dropped a single item at the noise. _‘Or is it re-learning old habits? Gustav used to be a little clumsy.’_

Wandering feet took him in the direction of the sound, where excited babbling and the enthusiastic groaning of something made of metal grew louder.

“I’m sorry! If you could just –“

“No, my fault. I’ll, wait. No, hang on –“

“It’s okay, you’ll be fine. Don’t worry, we’re okay!”

“Who are you trying to convince?”

Leif snagged the wooden cane he’d left by the bathroom. Its hard tip rapped against the floor in a steady, rhythmic pattern. The voices stilled at his approach, save for a breathless squeak he was certain – for the most part – didn’t emit from a male set of lungs. After the last few weeks he wasn’t going to count it out of hand, however.

He came around the corner, letting the cane rap against the floor in an ominous pattern. The cane’s tip thumped to a halt, planted between his feet, a stern expression on his face. The sight was well worth the little bit of showmanship.

Alynette, she of the red hair and devotion to his neighbor, stood in the doorway, stuck. Ahead of her, sprawled on the floor, was the object of her affections and Leif’s current potential source of information. A wheelchair remained in the doorway, wedged between the centauride and wood older than Leif’s grandparents. Large tires, designed for all terrain work, were stuck outside the doorway while the handles, her blouse, and some kind of satchel were tangled in some kind of mess defying common logic.

Leif looked down. He should’ve felt bad, or at least sympathetic. The man on his floor was looking back with a terrified expression, frozen in place. Most unbecoming for a man in a relationship with one of the most powerful liminals known to mankind, and old friend.

He cleared his throat, and gave a meaningful look at the hovering drone. A single raised eyebrow directed their attention back to the wheelchair, and the woman thereby.

“It’s my fault!” Earl spoke up from the floor. “I wanted to see if – I mean, how it could-”

Alynette interrupted. “My lord, please forgive us! We did not intend to intrude on your privacy. It’s a new mapping software, the –“

“ _All_ my fault,” Earl burst in, louder than before. “I set it up, was looking for those truckers. You know, those traffickers?”

“And it was _my_ fault for not setting this dwelling as a no-fly zone!” Alynette fired back, color starting to rise in her cheeks. “Don’t you dare try to say otherwise Mister Zakapenko!”

A shocked look hinted at a far different normality of address, but Earl had been around stubborn farmers too much to submit. “Well I recall myself sitting in the chair, writing the program. I’ve lived here for a lot longer than you _girl_ , and I know where things are and are not supposed to fly!”

Her shoulders went up, ears sweeping back. “Is that how you wish to continue, _boy_? I will remonstrate at the level to which –“

Leif cleared his throat. Instant silence filled the room. He waited until he was certain both their attention was on him, then hobbled over to the stricken human. “You all right there, Earl? Didn’t break your head, did you?”

“Um, yeah. I’m good?” Earl eased back, tension leaving his body.

“Good. Good.” Leif let the man sit on the floor for now, and turned to the trapped centauride. “Morning, Ms. Yidderman. You feeling all right there? No whiplash or nothin’?”

The woman squirmed, easing herself a little room away from the wheelchair’s protruding handle in her forward abdominals although still wedged in place. “I am well, sir.”

“Good.” He nodded approval. “Glad to hear it.”

He gave another long look at the wheelchair. It had seen better days, bent metal wrapped around the solid oak frame, the hand brake digging a divot into the door itself, twisted back around the tires in a way that prevented movement in any direction. He gave another slow headshake.

“I got some tinsnips in the utility drawer,” he tapped his cane, deep in thought. “And some wirecutters. Might need a hacksaw. If you’re sure you’re good?”

“Of course, milord.” Alynette hesitated. “Is … Earl well?”

The man in question snorted. “Had worse spills. I’m fine.”

“Do him some good,” Leif opined, moving towards the kitchen’s myriad of drawer space. “Thinkn’ you both might need to set too, calm your horses. Arguments can get a bit harsh. What was it you were talkin’ about?”

Both started speaking at once, leaving a wry grin on his face. “Somethin’ about spying on me, right?”

An equally fervent denial erupted, settling a smile on his face. “Good. So you’re fighting about blame. Ain’t no reason to fight. Plenty enough to go around. I’m not flying off the handle just because someone did something dang stupid. I _know_ Earl. He does enough of that on his own.”

This time the outraged denial was of a singular voice, low to the ground.

Leif gave them both a long stare. “if you two are figgerin’ to take it for the long haul, better start practicin’ your argifying now, how _not_ to fight. Sunshine and roses for the Honeymoon ain’t gonna cut it once you start seeing each other’s warts.”

“Um …” the centauride looked confused, but Earl had a grim look on his face.

“Come on,” Leif hunched down. “Let’s get you up to a chair, and then get your lady friend free.”

If he’d expected sputtering, there was a distinct lack. There was almost a sense of pride shimmering off the pair, although a significant portion of the gravitas was ruined by one half lolling on the floor while the other hung partway through a door frame.

Leif hoisted the younger man like a sack of potatoes, depositing him on a kitchen chair – albeit with the same gentleness of a newborn calf. “Sit tight.”

“Not like I can go anywhere,” Earl grumped. He watched Leif wrestle the wheelchair out of the door frame, needing only a screwdriver and a pliers to coax it the rest of the way.

As soon as the way was clear, Alynette stepped daintily into the room, taking care to wipe her hooves on the doormat. “Thank you, Mister Larsen.”

He grunted. “Leif. Friend of Earl’s a friend of mine.”

“Oh, she and I are definitely _friends_ ,” Earl’s eyebrows wiggled. “You know you set me up as a manager over at my place?”

While on paper it belonged to himself, Leif elected to not point that out. Earl Zakapenko had lived in that house for years before losing the use of his legs in a riding accident. It would be cruel to lose his home, too. Instead, he nodded.

“Well, in centaur culture, that makes me like a squire or duke or something. Her dad was a bit leery of just anybody stepping out with his daughter, but after you got me that job? Smiles and sunshine. By the way, how are you and Roanette getting on?” Earl quirked a teasing smile. “Aly here says Ro’s your _partner_ now?”

“Business partner.” Leif moved over to the coffee machine. The absent centauride and elf were updating their respective parties, leaving him free to do his own tasks for a change. Elves and cat-people were roaming around, keeping him safe he supposed, but for now the place was his. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

Earl tested one of his legs, smiling at the result. “She’d do a whole lot more if you let her.”

“A crush.” Leif picked up the hot brew, pouring a mug of coffee darker than pitch black night. “New place, new people, new experiences. She’ll find someone better soon, once the Exchange opens up next week. Might even fall for one of the workers out there.”

Alynette stamped a hind hoof. “You do her disservice. She cares for you a great deal.”

“She’s a good friend,” Leif returned after taking a sip of the unsweetened beverage. The taste was relaxing. “Few enough good folk like her out there. But once the Exchange opens, she’ll leave. They all will.”

The centauride’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”

Leif blinked. “What?”

“Why would she leave? She likes it here, likes you, and is the official liaison between you and the centaurs. After you made her a full partner, father delegated her as the supervisor for everything related to you – he’s in Kansas right now arranging house-share programs. Why would she leave?”

For a few heartbeats, Leif didn’t know what to say. After taking a deep breath, he _still_ didn’t know. “Red?”

Alynette shrugged, flipping her long hair over one shoulder. “The other parties will be here until reassigned, or you request their departure. Didn’t you read the contract?”

“Not a lawyer,” Leif felt the headache coming on again. “Wrote part of it, but … but ….” He shook his head, there’d be time to think on it later. “Later. Right now, got work to do.”

A soft buzz reminded him of the drone’s continued presence. He glanced up at where it still hung in place, propellers a blur. “Drone’s stay out, though. You’ll take care of it. Gotta get a few head to town for butcherin’.”

Then there was nothing but the back door, a quick whistle to summon the dogs, and a trip to the smaller ATV. He’d need to replace the Polaris’s windshield, but with a balaclava, sunglasses and gloves, it would be more than manageable. Then he’d need to take a few cattle down to the butcher’s; there’d be a lot of company in the future if he was any judge.

* * *

He stopped after reaching the Quonset. Surprise seemed to have exhausted its tricks, yet managed to deceive him once more.

The Polaris stood in full glory, gleaming fresh paint and polished windshield. Leif stared at it for a minute before grunting and continuing to the smaller vehicle. It didn’t have quite the speed or carrying capacity of the big machine, but it did have a tighter turning radius, and was familiar to the cattle. Familiarity was key in animal husbandry; wear the same clothes, perform the same actions, and they’d grow used to routine. Complacent, accepting cattle were easier to work with than a scared group of paranoid animals weighing a quarter ton each.

He stopped outside the Quonset, taking in the atmosphere. The sky was open, clear until the highest atmospheric levels, only trace wisps of cirrus clouds drifting across its bowl-like appearance. A bird-like figure soared over the pastures a quarter mile distant, a reminder that the very fabric of human existence was changing.

_‘Changing back, maybe?’_ he looked down, thinking. _‘Myths and legends. Back to life.’_

Eugene, back at his side, growled agreement.

“Hey.” Leif stooped down, ruffling his ears. “Good job. Taking care o’ folks here. Good job, Eugene.”

The dog’s eyes danced in happiness as he repeated the action with Scheherazade. It was too late to connect the action with the deed they’d performed, but emphasizing his approval with their presence was never wrong.

Then he felt a familiar presence, and turned to look down at soulful, pleading eyes. They begged for patience and understanding, and nothing more than acceptance of their presence at his side.

“Dunya,” he pitched his voice upward into a mellow tenor. “Don’t ask, girl.”

The Border collie’s head tipped down, eyes still focused on him, ears flattened as if in apology. The faintest of whines escaped her muzzle.

“You need to take care of those pups,” Leif crouched down, the better to stroke her fur. The animal leaned into his touch, heavier than before. “Don’t want trouble, eh?”

Hopeful, the dog raised her head. Her tail began to wag just a little.

Leif folded. “Fine. But you’re riding.”

Dunyazade’s entire body leaped up, bringing her close enough to lick his face. He shot to his feet, rubbing away the fluid. “Ach. ‘nuff of that. Let’s go.”

A soft clearing of a feminine throat stopped him just as the key was about to twist in the ignition. He twisted in the seat to see a disapproving glare in a very feline-like form. He sighed. “Yes?”

Fanchon raised her chin. “You do not believe you are going to ride off into the open without at least a single escort, are you? After the _l’excitation_ of last night?”

Leif gestured at the three dogs surrounding him. They seemed conflicted, staring at this cat-like creature that nonetheless possessed the power of speech. All three heads were cocked at an angle, as if attempting to determine the rightful protocol – to herd, or not to herd. It seemed a difficult question.

She ignored their attention, an achievement that put a point in her favor. “Ah yes, I forgot. You have now taught your most constant companions to request help through various forms of media.”

He chuckled. Once. “Point.”

“Therefore,” she drew herself up. “I will accompany you.”

Leif pursed his lips, thinking it over. “You sure? Headed to town, to the butcher.”

A slight widening of her pupils suggested surprise, but she just squared her shoulders. “ _Bon._ I believe I am better suited to blending in than the ladies Yidderman or the lamia. Would you be amenable to giving me a few minutes to prepare?”

He shrugged. “Yah. An hour to load up.”

“Wait until I get back!” The neko spun in place, darting towards the house.

Leif watched her bound away, tail lashing in what he’d interpret as a happy fashion. There were few cats on the ranch now, but there had once been many. Perhaps it was time to get a few mousers for the barn, there’d been some rodent activity in the feedboxes, he’d noticed. Poison would work too, or traps. But having localized predators caused far more disruption in the rodent population than crude traps or toxins.

Returning to work, Leif elected to forego the four-wheeler, and attached the trailer’s haul chain to his pickup’s tail hitch. It was always chain, never anything weaker, or possessing greater elasticity. There were once two neighbors that had used nylon rope to pull cargo, a father and son team.

“Remember them?” he murmured to Eugene. It was a stupid question – the dog hadn’t been alive at that time. But the entire family remembered, the whole _community_ remembered. “Rope broke, snapped back through the cab window, killed the dad. Day after the funeral, the son tried the same thing.”

Eugene winced.

“Yeah. Double funerals that week.” Leif directed a moment of commiserating thought towards the widowed mother, and resumed work. Cattle didn’t load themselves after all.

He looked down at the canine trio. Then smiled.

The three cows selected for ending their life’s journey had been quartered in the paddock by the nearest barn. As most ranchers in the area did, he’d selected the three with the worst traits, habits that were not desirable for the next generation. Breeding cattle had to consider the social aspects as well as genetic – one cow would teach their calf, and other cattle, all her tricks.

“Come on,” he whistled a low-high pitch, sending the dogs tearing into the paddock. Three dogs for three cows was severe overkill, but they enjoyed the work. “Good. _Good._ ”

Two of the dogs froze in place, staring at the furthest cow. The bovine shied away from their predatory glare, trotting towards the trailer’s open tail gate. Meanwhile the third dog circled around, getting between the cow and the paddock’s open section, stopping to deliver a hunger-filled stare whenever the recalcitrant cattle began to shift in her direction.

Trading positions like elite commandoes, the Border collies flowed forwards, ushering the cattle into the trailer. All three cows moved inside at last, and Leif checked their position before closing the back door. “Good dogs. _Good dogs_.”

The trio went berserk at the praise, prancing and racing small circles around him. He chuckled, fondling their ears when they got close enough, and limped back around.

Paddocks had gates wide enough to permit the entrance of even large machinery, double gates that swung inwards or outwards, creating a funnel when livestock needed guidance. In this case the gates had been opened outwards, creating a funnel into the trailer’s back. Leif swung the near gate a little further, and pulled the pickup forwards a few feet, before walking back and closing the gates.

_‘Opening gates, closing gates. Sometimes it seems all I do is move doors around.’_ He wrapped the chain back in place, dropping a half-inch steel pin through the links to hold them in place. _‘There. Back to the house, pick up Frenchy, and off we go.’_

Driving a half-ton pickup with a multi-ton trailer slowed the truck’s response. It extended the turning radius by a good forty feet – child’s play. A decent trailer-pulling tractor needed near that, in poor conditions. He dedicated his mind away from the events surrounding his early days learning how to drive the lower geared monstrosities. _‘Popping a wheelie out back the barnyard doesn’t count.’_

Parking outside the ranch house, he stepped outside without turning off the truck. Its engine hummed a cheerful basso, fading to a distant rumble as he reached the front porch.

Entering he found a felt-tip marker, scanned the grandfather clock’s face, and recorded the planned destination and duration on a marker board. It hung behind the hat stand, visible to anyone leaving the building, a habit the family had acquired during many years of confused diligence.

_Went to town. Back by Ten._

It was a simple message, covering the necessities. After thinking a moment, he added his initials to it, just in case someone else might be considered as entering his house, writing on his marker board, leaving messages. Neighbors did do that from time to time, missing someone by a few minutes, hours, or days.

“I am ready, Mister Larsen.”

This time he’d heard her approach – neko were less _heard_ than _detected_. Hearing the patterns of silence seemed to be the better option.

“Good.” He turned around, and froze. The neko had changed to … what was her concept of high-class country wear. High leather boots rose to almost knee height, showcasing hip-hugging jeans that rose in turn to a plaid shirt tucked into the waistband. A short denim jacket topped off the ensemble, the entire assemblage resembling nothing more than what he’d seen in the more upscale rodeos. She even had a Stetson, modified for her ears.

“Yeah.” His jaw worked. If the woman’s intention was to blend, it had succeeded – if a modeling school had been established since the last time he’d been to town. “Might … want to tone it down a little.”

Fanchon looked down at herself. “ _Cette?_ Ah, this? Is it not quite, how do you say it … dowdy?”

“No.” he looked down at his own faded jeans, feeling inadequate for the first time he could remember. His own boots stuck out beneath the material, scuffed and worn. “Eh. Let’s move.”

Wesson caught him at the door. “Headed to town?”

“Yah.” Leif felt as if he should be on his guard.

“Good idea,” the agent looked around. “Interrogation is still going on, but it looks like you should be in the clear. Throwing off your pattern should help – security cameras will be installed by the time you get back. Motion detectors are in place, yadda yadda yadda. Bottom line is, you’ll have security the current President _wishes_ he could have.”

Leif nodded at Fanchon, gesturing towards the pickup cab. “I’ll catch up.”

She flashed a smile and took dainty steps around a puddle towards the truck.

He waited until the door slammed shut. “Will she be safe with me?”

Wesson snorted. “Every representative sent to you is conversant in at least two martial arts. I don’t know how Roanette managed to get ‘Gun-Fu’ added to the roster, but it counted. Somehow.”

Leif quirked an eyebrow. “Sophette.”

A corresponding wince crossed Wesson’s face. “Yeee-ahhh. Her. _That_ I could believe, what with the thing she ripped off an attack helicopter, apparently. Miss Kissasen will be fine. Just don’t try buying her milk or cream, neko see those as courting gifts. Meat is fine, but don’t let her have too much cheese.”

Leif’s eyebrow progressed upwards. “Ice cream count?”

“Filing in Triplicate _no!_ ” Wesson shuddered. “It depends on the group, but worst case scenario, that’s a marriage proposal.”

A reciprocating shudder ran through Leif’s frame. “Right. Good advice. Fish?”

“Ask first,” Wesson answered immediately. “Most love it but a few see it as patronizing. Even if they love it while they’re complaining. Sort of a _tsundere_ approach, y’know?”

Leif hoped his blank expression served notice for ignorance. Whatever this _soon-deer_ was, it most probably wasn’t related to a John Deere. Although Wesson did not seem to be such a lowbrow as to follow the lesser brand.

“Right, of course not.” Wesson rubbed his forehead. “Um. One minute cranky and whiny, the next they’re trying to get you to hit on them.”

The blank expression continued. At this point Leif felt confident he could vie with professional comedians for maintaining a deadpan. Of course, anyone that worked around liminals might have that gift, he’d have to wait and see.

“Arg. _Tsundere_ means to be angry and cold at first, then be warm and caring over time. Especially if it’s attention from someone he or she likes. You don’t follow manga, do you?”

A slow headshake seemed to communicate with the strange Asian man’s brain. Leif felt he’d need to slow things down a bit, the man was babbling incoherent nonsense.

“Is this …” he waved towards the pickup’s general direction. “Relevant?”

“Of course it is!” Wesson straightened and sighed. “I can’t tell if you’re just playing dumb or actually ignorant. Who doesn’t read manga? It’s like half of what goes on in your life is lifted straight from a warped genius light novel writer! How could you not know?”

Leif took a small step too one side. “Waelp. Gotta get goin’. Butcher closes at five y’know.”

“Oh, what? Sure, sure.” Wesson pushed himself aside. “I’ll arrange for study material to be sent to you here. Can’t believe it, hasn’t even read ….” The man’s voice trailed off as he walked away, shoulders hunched.

Leif took advantage of the departure, hopping into the driver’s side of the cab. The engine rumbled a pleasant song, as if the vehicle itself enjoyed his presence. The dogs were waiting, ears lifted, eager for advice, almost as happy as the truck itself. If machinery could be called happy ….

Maybe he’d been alone too long. He forced himself to the present.

“Find Ro’,” he called to the dogs. They pricked their ears forward, then stood up. “ _Ro._ Protect Ro. Good girls.”

The three Border collies whirled away, bounding across the terrain. He watched for a minute, until the furred outlines faded. Then he slammed the door shut, eased the clutch back to shift gears, and started the journey.

“What was Wesson asking about?” Fanchon asked from the bench seat’s far side.

Leif almost jerked. Passengers in a pickup were rare for him. “Something about _soon deer_ , and some kinda food advice for you. Anything I need to know?”

Her ears angled towards him, then resumed a neutral position. “I know you will not mean anything harmful. There are certain foods that have meaning for neko, but we can talk on the way. How far is it to … where are we going?”

“Eau Clair,” Leif checked his blind spot, signaled, and pulled onto the gravel road leading past his ranch. “About three hours, give or take. Faster by car. Trailer’s slower.”

“Three … _hours_?” Fanchon’s eyes were wide. “To reach town?”

He slowed. “Bit o’ a hike. You sure you want to come? Can drop you off easy.”

“N-no! _C’est bon_ , ah. It is good. I did not realize it took so long to travel here.”

Leif shrugged. “Only three hours. Don’t have to do it on horseback, that takes all day.”

“Horseback?” Her eyes were completely round now. “People yet ride horse to places?”

He shifted the turn signal, moving onto a larger gravel road. “Yah. Recreation, mostly.”

“ _Mon Dieu_ ,” her head wagged back to see a small cow herd in the cover of some trees. “The Old West still lives.”

He chuckled. “Never left. Like Rome. Gone, but not forgotten.”

After a moment he switched on the radio. The Classical channel was playing yet another request for funding, featuring an expert in some discipline for improving vacations to the Caribbean … or something. Leif had never considered such a thing; far too much water, in a place featuring more strangeness than the last two months combined. So he flipped channels again, landing on a channel where he recognized the music.

Gravel turned to asphalt under his tires, open countryside everywhere he looked. This early the shadows were minimal, sketching the entire vista with almost painful clarity. The road to town was straight, a long ribbon of gray-flecked darkness. Within fifteen minutes he could see the trees surrounding Kitzscher’s outer limits, along with the warning sign.

“The population in this town is less than a thousand?” Fanchon observed. “Is it not a village?”

Leif slowed to city speeds – police loved to lurk just inside the speed limit change, to pull over inattentive drivers. “Dunno. Smaller than it was.”

Her ears rose as her eyes followed the small business center. A brick-front store stood alongside the biggest restaurant in town, which itself rested comfortably in between the store and a pharmacy. “Why did it … shrink?”

“Happens.” Leif lifted the fingers of one hand, acknowledging another driver. “Jobs dry up, folks move on. Economics.”

She nodded, looking mournful.

“Ain’t that bad,” he felt compelled to add. Surging memories of proper grammar poked his conscience. “ _Isn’t_ that bad,” he corrected himself. “One fella and a few machines can do the work of a dozen men now.”

“ _Oui_ ,” Fanchon agreed. “But there is little to do, to restore the places to what they once were, no?”

He eyed the road ahead, slowing as a minivan loaded with bicycles and a cargo carrier burled past. “Countryside’s going back to what it was. More moose, cougar out there.”

A happy sigh echoed from the neko. Her diminutive form twisted in the seat, turning so her body stretched along its width. Small feet tucked themselves under the edge of Leif’s jacket, resting against his good thigh. “It is beautiful here. So much color, so many creatures. _Magnifique._ ”

Leif eyed the reclining liminal. Her eyes were closed, she seemed unconscious about where her limbs were stretched. But her earlier impression had pointed out intense concentration … perhaps she was relaxing in his presence for a change?

_‘Haven’t done that with them yourself, fair.’_ The thought rolled through Leif’s mind. _‘She trusts you. A bit touchy-feely, but trust is trust.’_

Against his better judgement, not to mention nerves, he let the neko stay where she was, and drove in silence for the next two hours.

Time passed at speed during the duration. Leif listened to some man sing about how it Ain’t My Fault, then to a woman crooning on the topic of a storm blowing away everything she owned. Before the next song gained full steam – a true trucker’s song mourning the loss of his eighteen wheeler – he flipped the channel back to the Classical station, where some kind of opera starring a butterfly was now playing.

How a butterfly could become the star of opera he had no idea, but The Trout was an old favorite of his. It was never too late to appreciate new music.

It seemed neko were far closer to cats than he’d anticipated. _‘Give ‘em sunshine and a spot to sprawl, and they’re out like a light.’_

Eau Claire was visible in the distance, less than half an hour distant. The taller buildings caught the afternoon sunlight, reflecting white walls into yellow-gold pillars. At this distance the grain silos next to the railroad depots were most visible, blocky superstructures looming in the distance, small against the vast open sky. There were no true ‘sky scrapers’ in Montana outside of the Capital building. The tallest hotels reached six stories, but this was almost too close.

Leif watched for his turnoff and took it. Gentle turns were natural, upsetting the cattle on their last drive was downright rude, if not unethical. The cattle yard was placed away from the city, and reserved a spot for local farmers in a nod to the folks that made their business run.

Coming to a stop he parked, then looked down at the curled up neko. Her arms were wrapped around herself, and the shoe-less feet were pressed against his thigh as if seeking warmth.

He debated waking her up, but thought better of it. _‘Gonna catch hell for this.’_

Moving as little as possible, he pulled his jacket off the back where it rested during the three hour drive, and lay it over her still form. Fanchon stirred, but curled deeper into the jacket, burrowing into its patched lining.

He held back a snicker at the sight. Watching the equivalent of a felinoid adult snuggle into a blanket was … amusing. Cute too, but there were people that would cut out his spleen if such a word were stated.

Jamming his hat on, he ducked out the door, leaving the engine on. Eau Claire was at a lower elevation than his ranch. As a consequence, the air was warmer, a balmy forty degrees. Then, he went to see a man about some cattle. It might take a week or longer, but there would be enough meat for an entire tribe of cats for a year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To this day I do not understand the point of Tsundere. I’ve had it explained by experts, read idk how many definitions, and still don’t comprehend. It’s hard for me to take borderline abusive treatment and make it funny … although by the same token I find the Three Stooges hilarious. *shrug*
> 
> Also, Eau Claire is a nice city in Minnesota, not Montana. But there aren’t any liminals in the world of proper geography either, so as long as I’m borrowing biology I might as well borrow some geography as well.


	18. There and Back Again, a Neko's Holiday

The last two months had ensured Leif become aware of his surroundings. It was necessary, what with the centaurs’ above-average walking speeds, elves that could remain still for inhuman amounts of time, and the latest addition of cat-like beings. It felt as if being among humans again was a jarring sensation, oblivious herbivores wandering through a field, ignoring the wolf in their midst.

_‘Well, I like dogs …’_ he pursued the thought. _‘Been called a Lone Wolf before, too. Guess it fits. Don’t want to eat mutton though.’_

Neighbors to the east and south raised sheep. He disliked sheep on principle. _‘Smelly things that need constant looking after, gotta shear them too. Can’t train them like cattle.’_

The grocery store was half-full. Shopping carts ambled throughout the aisles like comfortable bovines, growing their cargo until making a final stop at the cashier stations near the point where they’d begun their journey. Leif had his own half-full cart, and started adding to its cargo with canned goods.

“Larsen!” a familiar voice called. “Hey, that you Larsen?”

Leif lowered a dozen cans of tomato juice into the cart, and straightened. “Bixley?”

“Hell yeah it’s me!” the short man built like a fire plug came into sight. “It’s been what, five, six months? Have you heard the news? Monsters are real!”

“Huh.” Leif pushed his cart a few steps farther, locating the olives –an end aisle, away from canned vegetables. Much as the ranch grew its own produce, there were some varieties lacking the fortitude for Montana climate. Belatedly, he brought his attention back. “Oh. Yeah.”

The shorter man almost vibrated with excitement. “You remember reading all those mythology books back in highschool? Theseus and the Minotaur? Saint George and the Dragon? All that stuff was _real!_ We have real monsters, real heroes Leif! What do you think about that?”

Leif squinted at the labels, checking prices. “Forty five cents an ounce? Highway robbery.”

“What … wait. You’re worried about _olives_ when I just told you that _monsters are real?”_

For a moment Leif considered explaining how not only he’d known such information, but had an intimate familiarity with the various downsides within that state of reality. But looking at the round face full of enthusiasm, he couldn’t do it. Besides, it had been a while since he could pull out his mischievous side.

“Yah. Money doesn’t grow on trees.” He looked at the labels again. “That’s better, thirty five cents an ounce.”

Bixley paced alongside his cart as more cans descended into its depths. “How can you be so calm about this? It’s like Homer, Aesop and all those old stories are coming to life, right here and now!”

Leif shrugged. Most individuals took such a motion as agreement.

“Of _course_ it is!” Bixley’s excited conversation continued as he followed Leif through the aisles.

_‘Sorta like Ro’ when she gets going,’_ the thought traced across his mind. _‘Wonder how she’s doin?’_

The thought shook off, like water on a duck’s back. _‘Red’s ma will want to tear a strip off my back I bet. Haven’t talked to her.’_ An inner shrug dismissed the situation. _‘Anyone leading on Gramps like that isn’t worth respectin’. I haven’t done that, have I?’_

A moment’s introspection assured him there had been no intentional misleading. But … there might be a need to look into the matter after the next few days had passed. _‘Big Reveal, then we can think about dating a cute girl.’_

He came to a stop in the middle of fresh produce, stunned. _‘Dating? Cute?’_

That was a thought for later. Much later. As in, _never_. That sounded good. There were too many complications involved with such an approach, too complicated a matter for a simple man like himself. Where had the idea come from, the infatuated ramblings of a young woman that had seen so little of the world? There were many others, far more worthy individuals she could pursue.

_‘Big rewards don’t come free,’_ an older saying came to mind. _‘Is she worth it?’_

That seemed an inane question. But not one to ponder in the center of produce. Heads lettuce may have had, but they were not conducive to aiding thought. _‘Next best thing to bein’ in a field, though.’_

He turned back to the important business: selecting appropriate vegetables. There’d need to be a celebratory meal with the signing of the Act, and what better way than a good ol’ fashioned potluck?

“How you doin’ during the lockdown?” Bixley continued, almost bouncing by his cart like an oversized child. “Only lasted a little while– what’re folks going to do in a riot out here? Tip cows?”

Leif shook his head, doubting his hearing. “Lockdown?”

“Oh sure,” Bixley caught onto Leif’s direction, grabbing a box of tomatoes. “Maybe you didn’t get one way out where you live. We had a lockdown here, maybe a month or two, just to keep things from going crazy. Not that anyone really paid any attention to it.”

“Huh.” Leif grunted again. What was he there for again?

“Beans,” he started to move towards the appropriate location, then changed his mind. There would be a crate or two in his truck, which Fanchon would be picking up in her ‘human with a cute headband’ disguise. Which reminded him of another chore that needed to be done. One he’d neglected for years, never thinking it would be necessary. What were the odds of a bachelor-farmer sinking to his neck in constant, unexpected company? Not him, that was certain.

Bixley still hung at his elbow, chattering about nonsense, until he … stopped. The sound of his mellow baritone was soothing in a way, and its sudden absence was noticeable. The man’s hanging jaw suggested mental disturbance of some sort, along with the glazed eyes and quiet _hummana hummana hummana_ sounds.

Leif concentrated on his hearing. There was an _absence_ of sound behind him and to the left. He held out a bag. “What you think, Frenchy?”

Manicured nails and toned arms took the cantaloupe, holding it up to a _mostly_ human nose. “It is not five star restaurant material,” she answered. “But it has potential.”

“Yeah.” Leif accepted the load back once more, hiding an internal smirk. Bixley, he could see, was staring at Fanchon, putting facts together. When realization hit, it was visible across his entire face, an illumination visible from across the parking lot. Leif decided to keep him off balance, and looked at Fanchon. “Done here?”

“ _Oui_ ,” she tucked a strand of dark hair back. “The packages are loaded, and strapped down. Except for this, of course.”

“Right.” He looked down at the half-full cart. “Good enough. I’ll check out, you call home? Got one more errand.”

Without responding, Fanchon stepped away, withdrawing a cell phone from her purse. She was lifting it towards her ear when she seemed to realize how high it was going, gave Leif an apologetic look, and hurried for the exit.

A small squeak from the cart’s unmaintained wheels was the only thing keeping the silence from growing uncomfortable. Leif’s steps were unhurried, casual, in comparison to the dragging heels of his chance-companion.

“Was that ….” Bixley whispered. “Is she …?”

Leif raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“You know!” Bixley made a flurried motion with one hand. “Her ears! They weren’t on the side of her head, were they?”

“Don’t know what you’re sayin’,” Leif kept a bland face. One long arm reached out, grabbing a bag of russet potatoes, an easy ten pound bag. He’d carry it in one hand rather than spend time stopping the cart and loading it.

Bixley almost whimpered. “ _Please_ tell me. Is it true? Do you have a _girlfriend that’s a catgirl?”_

Sighing, Leif shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Oh.” Now the other man’s face looked almost flaccid, disappointment written on every feature. “You had my hopes up. Wait, do you have a girlfriend?”

Leif rolled his eyes. “Yeah. _Me._ Right.”

The look of pure disappointment on the other man’s face was too great to bear. Throwing him a bone wouldn’t be too much, would it? Unless he was being corrupted by the liminals now, all that empathy expected of him. ‘ _Great. Turning me into a simpering weakling.’_

He’d work on that later.

“Drive out to the ranch sometime. We’d love to see you.”

Bixley looked surprised, but pleased. “Sure, I’d like that. Hold it – _we?”_

Leif wheeled the cart away, nodding a farewell. Whatever little thoughts pattered through his acquaintance’s brain, Leif hoped there was no risk of cross-contamination. It took months to build a proper train of thought, and minutes to teach some idiot a bad habit. There were times that he questioned his own competence; surrounding himself with people was one such source of concern.

He was already out the door by the time Bixley started moving again. Leif hurried without hurrying, a trick most farmhands learned when working around multi-ton dangers. The groceries went into the pickup bed, tucked into a close-topped container next to the cardboard boxes already strapped down tight.

Leif took a moment to admire their square knots, the professional-looking way the ropes kept the boxes from moving. Inertia was as dangerous as anything else; accidents happened, and anything _not_ strapped down could become a projectile. Death by a can of beans after all the recent trouble would be ignominious. Humiliating. Ignoble.

_‘Gotta pick up a new thesaurus,’_ he remembered. _‘Old one’s getting’ a bit dog-eared.’_

He slid into the driver’s seat, pulling the door shut with a clang. “Ready?”

Fanchon sat on the passenger side, looking prim. “Yes. Lady Yidderman and Miss Aredhel have returned, and promise to exercise great care with your livestock.”

“Good. Gonna need your help on this one.” Leif felt his stomach clench. Asking for help went against the grain, like a chainsaw encountering a nail deep in a tree trunk. It threatened his mental stability, his sense of pride.

“Of course, sir. How may I help?” Fanchon looked nonchalant, but her tail was whipping back and forth.

Leif forced down a sense of dread. Among the many things he _was_ , he _wasn’t_ stupid. To not ask for help would be the height of idiocy. Yet despite that certainty was an undercurrent of reluctance, bordering on fear. Fear was something to be conquered.

He fixed his attention on Fanchon’s light green eyes. Her pupils dilated, seeming nervous. Leif swallowed.

“I need to buy a cell phone.”

* * *

The store was small, as standard big-box stores went. The width stretched less than a barn’s floor, and went back a few dozen feet. But the proprietor knew their stock, arranging each select piece in a way that guided the eye towards its features. A series of square tables occupied part of the floor, inset computer monitors providing visual readouts for employees and the customers.

Leif looked down at the device in his hands, something that appeared to be the illegitimate offspring of a calculator and a television set. While not his first time holding such an instrument, it was the first time he was holding one with intent to own.

_‘Is that a power socket?’_

He tilted the thing to one side. The opening looked small, too tiny for a grounded cable, round too. The entire contraption was less than half an inch thick, and fit in the palm of his hand … if he were a giant. Black plastic surrounded a rune-filled screen, hieroglyphs denoting letters or symbols. For all he knew pushing a button would sound anti-theft alarms, or a cattle-prod.

_‘That would be useful,’_ Leif glanced back at his companion, the French neko chattering with the sales representative. _‘Won’t have something like that on a floor model though.’_

Sighing, Leif put it down. Another model hung close by, slanted to show off its sleek sides and slim design. Some customers might consider it a rakish angle, but he’d been through enough horse auctions to recognize showmanship. All the samples resembled each other, gleaming surfaces of chrome, modern lighting and smooth sides. Just the feel was an experience in cheap construction; dropping one would break its fragile casing he was certain.

None were built to last.

“Tch.” Giving up sounded delightful – but the entire point wasn’t about what _he_ wanted.

Faint footfalls approached from behind. Leif turned to see Fanchon holding out a small device. “This one may be for what you seek?”

He took it. This device had a folded design, presenting the sturdier portions for potential damage. It wasn’t metal, but it didn’t seem flimsy, either. Opening it like a clam revealed recognizable buttons, like a traditional phone that hung on the wall. The top half was a digital screen, but the mere presence of physical buttons reduced its complexity by exponential values.

“Data plan?” The idea of paying varying amounts based on how often one spoke was an old one – the first telegraphs paid by the letter. But paying to send pictures, to have an object you _owned_ and yet did not? It was better to leave the hard details to the experts.

“ _Une excellente affaire_ – ah, a good deal,” Fanchon smiled. “The Exchange will pay for half the bill, which a federal contract then enables. Unlimited texting, and long distance calls, yes?”

He turned the cell phone over. Its weight was less than reassuring, but at least it didn’t make his skin crawl like the featherweight constructs balanced on little bits of plastic. The price tag sitting on the paperwork felt like price gouging, but it was an investment.

“Long distance?” he raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Fanchon shrugged, fingers playing with the hem of her short jacket. “As the situation develops, more communication you will need. Others will call you for advice; it is best to plan ahead, _non_?”

“Yah,” Leif closed his eyes, and gave a mental farewell to a happy life of silence. “Let’s do it.”

“ _Bon!”_ Fanchon almost squealed, spinning back to the enraptured store clerk. The giddiness appeared to spread, taking the form of what even Leif considered to be a sappy smile. They began exchanging words at rates he couldn’t understand, leaving broad smiles on both faces.

_‘Don’t want to know,’_ he decided. _‘Some things mankind wasn’t met to know. At least half of ‘em have to do with women.’_ His neutral expression gained a frown. _‘Mankind includes women, right? Explains why things go so crazy if half of a population doesn’t know how the other half works. Throw liminals into the mix and … half and half and half? Criminently. What’ve I gotten myself into?’_

With luck, he’d survive. Intact, and all limbs attached. Being in his right mind would be helpful, too. Unless being involved with women as much as he was now was driving him into insanity. Like … talking … to … himself ….

_‘Dagnabbit.’_

* * *

“Thank you, come again!”

Leif grunted at the cheerful clerk, accepting the multiple bags of high-calorie, low-nutrition sustenance. There were better places to acquire food or he could’ve simply left well enough alone until reaching home once more, but when a neko’s stomach began growling something had to be done.

“Thank you mi—Leif!” Fanchon accepted the bags with near manic intensity, pulling them onto the seat at her side. Her small hands dipped inside, withdrawing their contents. Her stomach growled again, louder this time, eliciting a blush.

Leif ignored it, and eased down on the accelerator. His old truck fired up with the smooth rumble of well-maintained machinery. Checking the wing mirrors, he backed out of the strip mall’s parking lot, and pulled forward, merging into traffic. The sun was almost down, ensuring the slow wind chilled to the very bone. Winter in Montana did not forgive.

Behind, the trailer groaned a sympathetic counterpoint to every bump the truck experienced. While old, the vehicle’s trailing counterpart was solidly built. Leif felt confident it would last another few years with minor repairs. Fortunate – the harvest was good, but it was always nice to save a little more in the bank.

“Here you go!” a large sandwich made its presence known at Leif’s side. He glanced at the highway, accepted the offered food, and bit in. Industrial-prepared meat, wrapped in processed cheese, vegetables and a bun met his taste buds.

The flavor reminded him of the city. So much artificial content. Addictive. Available in massive quantities … people wanted it because it made life easier, or because there wasn’t anything else.

_‘Did I just compare life to a burger?’_ Leif flicked the headlights on. Further away than she had been before, Fanchon was devouring her second burger, tossing down French fries every few bites like popcorn. _‘Is she really that fond of junk food? City slicker and all that, but still.’_

A faint moan caught the edge of his hearing. Without looking he could almost feel the neko freeze, then resume eating, at a slower pace.

Setting the burger down at his side, Leif flicked on the radio. Volume covered a multitude of sins, even those accidental in nature. _‘Might need to get her to town more often. Sounds like she likes that city flavor a lot.’_

His thoughts were interrupted by a blaring sound on the radio. Frowning, Leif twisted the volume knob upwards. A mechanical voice began intoning a warning – one that didn’t appear to be the usual warning.

“What … another storm?” Fanchon’s hand was frozen mid-air, holding a lengthy piece of breaded chicken.

“Been in the works,” Leif focused on the counties reeling off the machine-announcer’s voice. “Yep. That’s us.”

Crunching sounds came from Fanchon’s fist, crushing the fried food.. Glancing at her, Leif could see that her eyes were scanning the overcast skyline. To the west cumulus clouds towered over the over the visible horizon, highlighted by the setting sun.

“We’re four hours away. We can’t make it in time!”

From a newcomer’s viewpoint, Leif supposed the threat seemed imminent. In a certain sense, it was. But to two travelers, it wasn’t.

“We got time,” he squinted over the steering wheel, seeking out what flags he could see. They all pointed his way, standing straight east. Overhead the cirrus clouds were travelling at a ludicrous rate. Were he on his own two feet he could predict a more accurate speed, but the moving truck didn’t really change much in the grand scheme of things. “After midnight.”

The neko seemed agitated still, so he cast about for anything to discuss. “So. Like fast food, eh?”

He withheld the obligatory facepalm – form his limited understanding, women did not like to be reminded about their diet. Or a suggestion that they needed one. It was a dangerous topic.

“You saw that, yes? Ah. It is, how do you say? Difficult to explain.” Fanchon was blushing, probably. In the dim lighting it was hard to tell. “When young, I was, we did not access such foods. Hidden, we needed to be. Lady Yidderman needed to hide more, but even so she did not want such things. But our home, it was behind a store. So all day we could smell it. Sometimes _mère_ would get us some. She could wear a hat that covered her ears. _Père_ would be so busy, and come home hungry. But we could smell it always, but never have it.”

Leif blinked. This was the most she’d ever spoken in one sentence since they’d met. Obviously, this was important to her, although food from … no. _‘Not the food. Memories. Family. Homesick.’_

“Huh.” He switched the highlights down, then back up again as a truck passed the other way. State highways were two lanes, people were going home after a day of work. Or running from the storm. He dragged himself back on topic. “What’s your favorite place?”

She brightened. The chicken strip was already halfway gone in the brief interlude; where she put it all was a mystery. “In France, we have many American restaurants. We do, after all, make the greatest food in the world. But we loved the Pizza Hut, and the McDonald’s. My most favorite was the fried chicken ….”

Leif chuckled as the neko seemed to realize her hand was already scraping the bottom of the next bag. “Fill your boots. We’re gonna be drivin’ a while.”

“Are … you sure?” she held out a second sandwich. “You bought so much. Are you not hungry?”

He shrugged. “Was gonna put what we didn’t eat in the fridge. Got groceries. Go ahead, we ain’t starvin’. Life is good, y’know?”

The wrapper made a crinkling noise as she unwrapped it. Her eyes were staring at him in a way that made Leif feel uncomfortable.

“ _Oui_ ,” her eyes closed as she inhaled the aroma of meat and cheese. “It is.”

* * *

A stiff wind picked up by the time Leif could make out the mailbox for the ranch. Bits of congealed water had started their collective assault, too small to be sleet, too hard to be mist. Headlights made the invisible particulates dance in fog-like patterns, swirling around his passage like ethereal creatures from beyond the mortal realm.

Well behind the mailbox, obscured by the small stand of trees, he could make out the ranch house’s lights. The curtains were drawn, filtering multi-spectrum bulb radiance to an orange hue. No unexpected vehicles of chrome-and-sable coloration were positioned in the drive, no bullet holes were appearing in the windshield, which seemed an improvement.

He took a surreptitious look at the cat-eared woman napping on the bench seat. Her knowledge of the fast-food restaurants bordered on encyclopedic; surprising given the attitude he’d seen so far. Her re-programming of his new cell phone had been almost painless, too.

Grudgingly, he raised his estimation a notch. Her enthusiasm was just hidden behind an overly -civilized veneer. _‘Once you get her goin’, she don’t stop. Like that Energizer Bunny ….’_

A thought crossed his mind. Were there rabbit-like individuals out there? And were they closer to actual rabbits or hares? Wild hares were as similar to rabbits as the coyote was to a Jack Russel terrier. How had he gotten on the subject?

He looked down. Fanchon was curled up under his jacket again, regular breaths proving her somnambulant state. For once, Leif hesitated. _‘Wake her up here, let her sleep? Don’t want to scare her, strange place and all … damn it look at me now. All I need now is to call up Wesson and talk about feelings. Maybe start a knitting circle, with little doilies and gossip about the neighbors.’_

The door creaked open, letting a burst of cold air inside. Leif didn’t look to see if the neko reacted, slamming the door with perhaps not as much force as he could have. _‘Ninny. Turning into an old woman now.’_

Another door opening caught his attention, he looked up, still moving to the truck’s back. The house door was widening, yellow light spilling out towards him, and a pair of familiar faces peering out. Aredhel emerged first, her slim figure darting through the opening faster than Roanette’s more solid build could manage. “A good trip?”

“Yep.” Leif paused as Aredhel came to an awkward stop before him. He waited a beat, but when she said nothing more, took the initiative. “All well here?”

“As can be,” she stepped aside as Roanette approached. “Mother is most irritated at your absence. If you could speak with her at your convenience?”

“Sure, sure.” Leif turned to the newest greeter. “Ro’, how wait-“

Leif’s eyes bulged as the dark-haired centauride swept him up in a massive hug. His feet left the ground, making little kicking motions as if seeking the abandoned firmament. “Ro’ … ng! Air!”

Roanette let him back down, gentle as thistledown. “I am glad to see you, Leif.”

“Yeah,” he sucked in a lung-full of precious atmosphere. “Nice … to see … you. Too.”

“So then!” Roanette clapped her hands. “May we help you offload? And where is … you wore her out?”

Leif followed the centauride’s gaze through the side window, where Fanchon’s form was visible, curled up in the jacket still. “Long drive. She got tired, I guess.”

“Oh really …” Aredhel smirked at him, carrying one of the boxes. “We must get her to tell us all about your trip, shall we not, Roanette?”

“Of course!” Roanette chirped. Her height advantage ensured the truck’s sidewall proved no obstacle. “But I think she would appreciate being carried into the house, would you, Leif? She seems so tired. We can handle the supplies, right ‘Red?”

“Certainly,” Aredhel disappeared into the house, reappearing moments later. “The dogs are fed and in the kennel, the horses are fine, and I asked a few elves to stay with the cattle tonight. Your usual hands are already in place, so … please take responsibility for the woman you wore into exhaustion, Larsen.”

He stopped and gave her a level look. “I may not be the sharpest bowling ball in the alley,” he had to speak up as a gust of wind tugged at his shirtsleeves. “But I know when you and Ro’ are tryin’ somethin’.”

“Who, us?” Roanette attempted to bat her eyelashes at him. The effort failed when an errant gust blew enough moisture to turn the playful action into a wincing attempt to clear her eyes. “Ack. Look. Trust us, please?”

Leif still hesitated. It felt of manipulation, being pushed into something. His musing came to nothing when the pickup door popped open on its own volition. Fanchon emerged, tugging the oversized sleeves across her hands. She darted forward past Leif, pausing just long enough to stretch up on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you for the date. I loved it.”

The neko gave a shy smile, then dashed up the sidewalk into the house, tail lashing in a self-satisfied fashion. He caught a glimpse of her shoes coming off in the hall, through the door hanging open.

_‘Date.’_ The thought jumped around the upper registers of his mind, ascending into terrified registers. _‘Date? I was … shopping. **Shopping**. Right?’_

“Oh, is that how we are doing it now?” Aredhel approached his other side, seeming almost as surprised as he. She gave a shrug. “Oh well. Thank you too, Larsen.”

Leif hadn’t moved, which left his other cheek open to being the recipient of another kiss. Feeling akin to a stunned trout, all he could do was watch the elf also retreat to the house, but emphasizing a swaying motion to her step that hadn’t been there before. Or the wink aimed his way just after she cleared the threshold.

A heavy sigh emanated from above him to the right. This time Roanette came into view, looking irritated. “Of course she’d see this as a date. Europeans, both of them. Do not worry, it is a custom to kiss the cheek as greeting or farewell.”

He started breathing easier. But then her tanned face was close to his, bright eyes glinting mischief. “They can be mistaken. But I will not. Thank you Leif.”

Soft lips met his own, strong hands looped around his neck and the back of his head. The kiss went on for what felt like an hour, but in reality was perhaps a few seconds in length. There were no fireworks, no sudden feelings of inimitable passion, but … that was an option, Leif felt. Potential if he just _hinted_ at desiring more.

Roanette pulled back, lowering to whisper next to his ear. “We will not push, we trust you to do the right thing. Maybe we can talk after the Interspecies Bill has been signed? Mm?” She bussed her lips over his own, and pulled away.

If he’d felt like a stunned trout before, now he felt as if he were an entire school of the game fish, under the surface of a pond that had just been hit with fifty thousand volts. _Stunned_ lacked the true depth of confusion roiling through his mind.

Leif glanced at the barn. Its main door hung open, and Sophette stood in its opening, a broad smile etched on her face. The smile widened when she saw him looking. She clasped hands before her waist, looking down in a demure fashion before coquettishly peering back up at him from beneath long eyelashes.

“Good Lord, I’m dead.” Leif took a deep breath. There were crates to unload, stupidity to enlighten, and … and … and ….

He couldn’t help but laugh a little. “So very dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was written in two weeks, after the last chapter was released. There is no buffer, and I'll be writing as fast as possible. Well, as fast and *well* as possible. If it's not up to standard, it'll take a while I'm afraid. But this was a fun chapter to write. Enjoy!


	19. Chapter 19

That night a true blizzard struck. Wind howled down from the mountains, chill, arctic blasts refreshed by their alpine perambulation. Clouds reaching invisible heights seemed to have no end to the snow falling from their whirling interiors, casting out more water in ten seconds than the entire county’s plumbing system could handle in a year. It came in torrents, whipped from delicate snowflakes drifting across the landscape into shards of sand-like abrasive force, catapulted through the sky.

One shred of turbulent air found its way through the sheltering tree-belt, blasting over the open terrain into the one object standing in its path. The fury of the remnant, diminished as it was, shook the house to its framework. Windows rattled, lights flickered, and the lone hanging light in the kitchen cast wavering shadows across its solitary occupant.

Leif’s hands remained steady, wrapped around a mug of mint tea. It was eight in the morning – or possibly eight at night. The storm outside blocked any hint of the sun, and his slumber had been so deep it could’ve been twelve or twenty four hours since his head had first struck the pillow.

The storm’s mood suited him. Coiling strands of diamond-sharp snow blurred outside the kitchen window, creating nonsense figures in the air. The entire world was being turned on its head that day; did the wendigo actually feed on human flesh? Were the odd, twisting shapes in the swirling cacophony patterns being discerned by an overactive mind, or actual beings that lived as wind sprites?

Another shred of the storm’s anger struck the house, driving a deep groaning from its timbers. Leif raised his mug to the storm, acknowledging its rage while the cool breeze flitted across his skin.

_‘Hope they’re all right,’_ his concerned glance flicked to the window, beyond which nothing but the obscuring snow could be seen. _‘It’s a solid place. But still.’_

From the living room, the grandfather clock began its hourly warning. The storm drowned out the chiming bells, yet was unable to halt the clock’s unhurried actions.

He had to approve such dedication. The world still spun, clocks still told time, and farmers grew crops no matter what.

The small statuette he’d carved caught his eye. Without meaning to he’d captured Roanette’s high cheekbones and energetic bearing. Had she been on his mind months ago, when everything just seemed annoying? Or was the whole concept just bundled confusion in his mind?

_‘They’re interested,’_ thoughts of the prior night – if it was only that – rose to the surface without permission; three _very_ attractive young women in close proximity, one of which going so far as to claim his first kiss. _‘Can’t blame her. She didn’t know. You_ want _to blame her for it … but ….’_

He found himself slowly shaking his head. Blaming Roanette for doing what was on her heart was like scolding a cat for hunting the family hamster. _‘Yeah I could’ve stopped it. Should’ve. But it’s just her nature. My fault, not hers.’_

Outside the storm howled, prying at the eaves. The noise spurred action, driving Leif to his feet and towards the closet.

Minutes of digging later, he returned to the table, carrying an old, cardboard chess board. It had cost less than ten dollars at some store forty-odd years ago, and its pieces were misshapen bits of plastic by now. Its intrinsic value, however, was inestimable.

Pondering the individual pieces, Leif selected a few and began building the opposition. Winter was a time for planning the next season beyond a few types of seed, looking months into the future. A _good_ farmer knew his land, where what seed could flourish, and planned accordingly. What he couldn’t know – what no man did – was how the weather would play out.

Enemy positions chosen and recorded in a new notebook, he arranged his own side of the board, of comparable strength, but different positioning. On the board they resembled nothing more than broken _stele_ , ancient plinths marking significant events. But here and now, they represented Leif’s aspirations for the next year.

“General Winter,” he lifted his mug once more as the blizzard’s rage crescendoed to new heights. “Game on.”

* * *

Eight o’clock rolled around again, the third iteration in conscious memory. A check on the old mechanical clock sitting in the den showed a mere day had passed. _‘Well, day and a half. Twelve hours. Time goes funny in a blizzard.’_

During the intervening time Leif had played out dozens of matches, filling his notebook with notations. Half of each page was devoted to the game’s moves, the other half contained ideas for the next season.

By the time so many possible concepts were compiled, Leif had worked up an appetite. Leaving the board where it sat, he wandered into the kitchen.

Cooking helped pass the time, and there were enough fresh vegetables to satisfy even the most voracious of centaurides. For the moment though, Leif found himself craving cookies. Not the dry, crunchy things stores vamped as ‘home-made fresh’, but actual _cookies_ , baked in an oven with enough butter to grant an elephant cardiac arrest.

Humming to himself, Leif set to work mixing the dough. The oven’s heat was set to over three hundred degrees Fahrenheit, yet the external chill was still palpable. Tiny lines of pure white leaked around unsealed cracks that even the most vigilant homeowner missed here and there. But inside, the warmth fought back with equal ferocity, thick rime etching crystalline patterns on the windows near sources of water. The ice-covered battle line between _inside_ and _outside_ only served to remind Leif of the guests staying in the cellar. _Cellars_ technically.

“Huh,” he considered risking the descent, then looked back at the stove. “Better make enough for everyone.”

Keeping his hands busy gave a focus for something other than his thoughts, even better than the chess games. Thinking through his moves held reminders of Aredhel, her keen eyes watching like a bird-of-prey. There were moments when her clever fingers would twitch, perceiving an opportunity, eager to seize advantage.

Leif punched into the dough, tiny puffs of flour rising from his fist. _‘Not helping. Not helping at all. Quit thinkin’ about ‘em. They’re interested, but they have a lot better prospects out there, not here with some backwoods hick.’_

The thought caused pain – seeing them leave. _‘Sophie said Ro’ would stay though. Red … maybe not. You marry what their mother looks like, yeah? An’ I_ don’t _want the same deal Gramps got.’_

Thoughts of the old man sent his gaze to the window. _‘Wonder how he’s doing? Probably happier than you, that’s for blame sure.’_

Wait. _There_ was something he could anticipate. The elvish queen wanted to talk with him. _‘Told her I’d give her a fair hearing. And that big public contract thing is going on live tonight. Tomorrow. Whatever the time zone is.’_

With a ding, the stove’s first batch of cookies was complete. Three dozen sugar cookies, baked to perfection were transferred to the cooling rack – not that they’d need much time in _this_ weather. But they were warm, soft, and just the right amount of crumbly. A judicious amount of sampling was needed, for quality control of course; waiting just long enough for it to become firm, he could even taste the hint of cinnamon someone had added to the recipe.

_‘Not bad,’_ the next batch entered the stove’s voracious maw, uncooked lumps beginning their trial by fire. _‘Need what, two, three dozen per? They can pack it away faster than the boys at the church’s bake sale.’_

The next collective began its preparation, mixing in a bowl big enough for a small child’s bath. _‘Got the proportions down. Time to get serious.’_

_‘Sugar cookies are a good start. What about peanut butter? Maybe some gingerbread and oatmeal raisin? Maybe just let the cook book flop open and take it from there.’_ A smile worked its way onto his face in the process of acquiring the gallon jar container from the pantry; he’d just obtained its delicious goodness the prior day, but this was a worthy cause. _‘Maybe make some blondies too. Got enough pie stashed away for a fortnight of binge-eating … or maybe a day for Sophie and Ro’… No. Bad thought. Make cookies.’_

Fifteen minutes later he cycled the trays again, flipping cooled confections onto a plate, and transferring them to the kitchen table. He couldn’t resist sampling another; it was perfect. Moist and sweet, with richer undertones made possible through brown sugar, rather than the more-processed white sugar variants.

“Good.” He tore himself away, pulling the next set of bowls into place. A sudden thought struck, and he sent a suspicious glare at the front door. “Someone gonna be kickin’ in my front door? Maybe some kinda ‘Timmy’s Fallen in the Well setup?”

Leaving the bowls where they stood, he walked over to the window, frowning at the storm guard protecting its external surface. Darkness billowed without, shards of brilliant points darting in and out of focus to fast to see. Nothing could be seen through that wall of snow, even the yard light poised across the gravel circle.

Out of habit, Leif checked the thermometer, a clever bit of workmanship set up by one of his brothers just a year prior. “Minus forty. Chilly.”

His feet turned to the fireplace, where a low fire was burning. Seasoned wood, dried over time and stockpiled, made an excellent warmth boost. A propane furnace sent heat through baseboard radiators throughout the house, but there was nothing like a good fire to enhance the mood. Good construction prevented most of the heat from escaping up the chimney, but a fresh breeze still made its presence felt if one stood in the right place.

As he added another cottonwood cord, the timer dinged once again. The scent of gingerbread filled the air, a steadily building aroma filling the upper floors. It brought back memories, of Thanksgiving and Christmas, holidays when the entire family would relax during winter storms, perhaps repairing something in the basement or reading a book.

_‘Good times,’_ he thought, then frowned at the source of the new odor. One side of the tray had lain too close to the edge, resulting in crispy gingerbread men instead of the intended soft texture. _‘Yeah. Burned ‘em back then too.’_

The extra-crunchy tidbits found a new home off to one side. Leif stepped back, checking the clock, then the supplies sitting along one cupboard. At least fifty pounds of sugar lay in state, awaiting his discretion. Flour lurked in the pantry, alongside spice racks started by his great-grandparents, metal containers that hadn’t been produced in forty years filled and refilled by subsequent generations.

Leif made one last stop, at the bookshelf in the den. Safe from grease and stains resided the family cook books, one created by the local church, another by an extended family member whom solicited recipes from everyone in the bloodline. More were available in the wooden construct’s regular openings, but he selected the church cookbook. Worn pages almost fell open to the most-used recipes, the smell of flour and spices wafting from their parchment-like surfaces.

Selection made, he made an about-face and headed back into the kitchen. _‘Let’s give that stove a real workout. See how much I can make before the storm finishes up. Can’t last that long now, been over twenty-four hours already. A little snack for the big day.’_

A massive grin spread across his face, safe where no one could see it. _‘This is gonna be fun.’_

* * *

The sound of scrabbling hooves in the cellar was the first sign of life to reach his ears, audible through the one radiator vent he’d never gotten around to fixing. Confused, Leif allowed the bundt cake to rest, and wandered towards the pipe. As he approached, he could hear voices, echoing up the narrow stairway.

“ _He must be well, Leif has lived in this region for years. Just because he has not answered your calls does not mean there is a problem_ ,” One calm voice was saying. It was tinny, but recognizable “ _Perhaps he is simply resting?_ ”

Leif glanced at the wall-mounted phone. Its voice-recorder remained a reassuring, unlit presence. He raised an inquiring eyebrow at the open grate.

_“I know, I know ...”_ the first voice went on to mutter something indecipherable. Leif almost allowed the pangs of conscience overpower his curiosity. _“But … it’s today. The day everything goes public. I’m worried.”_

Now Leif’s conscience turned from attacking his sense of propriety to a crushing attack on his sense of responsibility. Time alone in the house had been pleasing, but there had been a great deal of soul-searching as well. Much as he wanted to deny it, having the new people around had done him good. Despite his best efforts, he seemed _like_ having them around.

There had been a point where he’d almost contacted a psychologist. What had gotten into him? Then the previous day happened – two days, depending how one interpreted the mechanical clock – and the world had shifted once more.

His feet came to a stop. _‘They won’t back off; ain’t how people work. Hurt feelings now and heal later, try something now and feel like death later, or try something now and it works out.’_

A glance at the table showed off the results of working without restraint, losing one’s mind in labor. The table almost groaned under its burden; he’d run out of plates and resorted to clean towels, spread across wire racks stacking upwards like a ziggurat. One man with a reason to stay busy could do a great deal of damage.

_‘Oops ….’_

Footsteps began to work their way up the stairs, accompanied by grumbling sounds. _Male_ grumbling, unless the liminals had somehow acquired vocal-shifting characteristics in the short time he’d not seen them. That left a few possible representatives, but only one that made sense.

By the time Wesson entered the kitchen, Leif had adjusted the coffee setting to weaker than his custom. Without looking, he tossed one of the aluminum mugs, hearing a surprised noise followed by the distinct sound of reverberating metal on someone’s skull, followed by a sharper ring of metal hitting the floor.

Leif faced the other direction; hiding a smile. “S’pposed to catch it.”

“Do you often assault guests?” Wesson grumbled. “Who would’ve expected you throwing things at me?”

Leif gave a laconic shrug. “Guests usually call ahead. How you get in anyway?”

“Oh. Sorry about that,” Wesson’s voice sounded apologetic. “We used the connection tunnel from the root cellar.”

This time Leif couldn’t hold back the surprise. “Tunnel? That old thing?”

Wesson had the grace to look embarrassed. “It seems Roanette used her position as your partner to ‘refurbish’ certain parts of the property. I hope she did not overstep?”

Leif was aware of the sudden silence coming from the radiator opening, and noted how Wesson was standing at the exact position where sound from _upstairs_ could be heard _downstairs_. It was a unique feature, part of why it had been left unrepaired so long; someone could call into the basement from the kitchen without raising their voice or having to walk all the way over to the stairs.

“Eh,” he walked a pace over to where his own voice could be heard. “Job needed doin’. Hired gophers or somethin’?”

“Or something,” Wesson agreed. “The kobold are professional earth movers, famous for their mining work in Germany.”

Leif thought he’d read about that somewhere, the information packets provided had been long and detailed. There were entire branches of the non-human biology needing study, but study required time, and time was something lacking on his hands. At least, until recently.

“If she thought it was a good idea, then I’ll go with it.” He nodded at the table, overflowing with baked goods. “Want a bite?”

“I’d love one,” the agent selected an oversized cookie, sinking his teeth into it with gusto. “Good stuff. The woman you marry is going to be the luckiest lady in the world.”

A sudden twist of almost evil mischievousness intent summoned Leif’s attention. He made sure his position was in-range of the sound network. “Don’t worry. I remember. Ridin’?”

Dead silence emanated from the radiator. Leif could almost see it straining to listen.

“Oh?” Wesson swallowed. “Ah. _That_. Sorry, it’s been a while.”

“Mhm,” Leif pulled a glass jar of whole milk from the fridge, purchased off the dairy a few miles down the road. “’Bout two months, yah. I remember. No ridin’ a centaur. Watch the dairy with neko. Don’t try flirtin’ with elves.”

“Feels like longer. Oh, thanks. Cheers.” Wesson raised a glass and took a long gulp. “Um, yeah. You know that I only said that as a preparatory measure? As things get rolling along you can relax a little. Kiss a girl. Hug a pretty woman.”

The radiator vent almost vibrated with excitement.

“Huh.” Leif delivered his best sardonic look. “Rules change or somethin’?”

Wesson’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Not change, per se. Just have to know when to treat them as guidelines. People are people – say, did you lose your cell phone?”

“No?” Leif looked over at where it sat. “Over there.”

Rolling his eyes, Wesson walked over and picked it up. “You know you have to turn it on in order to get messages?”

Wordless, Leif gestured at the landline sitting on the wall.

“Yes, but here,” Wesson’s agile fingers punched open the device. It made a little chiming noise, booting up in seconds. “Fast. Nice. Now look, see this? It means you have text messages.”

“Texting ….” Leif felt lost. “If you got somethin’ to say, why don’t you call?”

“Because,” this time it seemed the Asian man’s eyes might leave their skull for the strength of their roll, “Most people can just send a little chat. It’s like saying hello to someone as you walk past; seven seconds of interaction. Social capital, you recognize them, they recognize you, both feel good. It makes the world go ‘round, and costs very little effort.”

Taking the device, Leif checked its icons. A red number hovered beside the small misshapen square. “A lotta interaction.”

“Eh, popular people interact more,” Wesson popped another cookie into his mouth. “You know, you should bring these to the carry-in over in Havre.”

Leif’s eyebrows furrowed. “Carry-in?”

“Party. Everyone brings something to share?” Wesson perused the piled sweets. “Sort of like a buffet?”

“Oh. Potluck. Or smörgåsbord.”

“Really? Cultural term then. A few days of celebration when the Exchange is signed. All the bigwigs will be there; I know you don’t like the attention, but you won’t be the center of attention there. They’ll have representatives from all over, the cameras will be focused on the liminals and humans going out and being ambassadors, not the people running the embassy stations.”

“Huh.” Leif had to consider the thought. “Big deal, eh?”

“It is,” the government agent agreed. “I’m surprised no one mentioned it to you before. Preparing for the storm might’ve been part of the problem.”

“Eh,” Leif looked out the window. Then he looked again; he could _see_ out the window. Snow scudded past in drifting waves, but it was the leftover material blowing across his fields, rather than new flakes from the sky. “Huh. Wind died down.”

“Well yes,” Wesson gave a wry smile, ruined somewhat by the cookie crumbs clinging to one side. “How did you think we could talk?”

He snorted.

“So,” Wesson’s expression changed to a smirk. “What do you think of the young ladies?”

The hair on the back of Leif’s neck rose. The other man’s mien was too knowing, as if he’d known exactly where he stood and how sound carried. Belated knowledge filtered into Leif’s mind, how there had been electronic surveillance devices in his home, the agent’s intimate knowledge of the building’s structure, and the way he’d navigated the cellar stairs without making the third-topmost step creak.

Avoiding the creaking step was the hallmark of someone experienced in stealth, resorting to it as a habit. An operative doing his best to know everything about a target would learn everything possible, including little acoustic tricks.

Part of Leif wanted to feel violated. The level of knowledge acquired would need an in-depth analysis, someone going over everything with a fine-toothed comb, multiple _teams_ of people analyzing data collected from recordings and blueprints. But another part was just impressed with Wesson’s cleverness.

_‘Hoisted on my own petard,’_ Leif recalled a saying Gramps had often repeated. _‘Walked into that one.’_

“Yeah. Nice folks. Very polite.” He could almost see the opening strain to hear. “A little nosey sometimes. Can’t blame ‘em. Fun to have around.”

Wesson’s eyebrows lifted, gaze flickering from the vent to Leif’s face. “Impressive recovery.”

This time Leif showed his teeth. “Yah?”

“From someone who hated company into such a sociable individual,” Wesson continued smoothly. “It is quite impressive.”

“Yeah.” Leif grunted. “Easier when nobody’s tryin’ to take over everything, tell you what to do, plant snooper tech everywhere.” He winced. That had come out harsher than intended.

The other man seemed to take it in stride, however. “I added that to the Exchange’s First Contact protocols. It’s already borne fruit in Kentucky,” he gave a mock shudder. “Believe me, you were quite civilized, compared.”

“Never been,” Leif conceded defeat to the keen-minded agent, and moved away from the vent. “Good horses.”

“Another centaur clan is founding a stronghold there,” the agent smiled wider for a moment, but refrained from gloating. “They want to talk to your people out here, by the way. The centaur contingent is very pleased with how things have worked out, which has made _my_ job easier. Thank you for that.”

Dull sounds from below suggested movement on an upward nature. On instinct Leif shifted to put the table between himself and the probable direction of approaching newcomers. It was a wise move.

Multiple figures emerged. Aredhel first, native athleticism putting her ahead of Fanchon. The neko’s approach seemed almost frantic, unexplained until Roanette’s towering form appeared, lunging up and out of the staircase made for bipeds, her sister close behind.

_‘Maybe I should rebuild the stairway?’_ Leif frowned. Expanding the steps would increase the staircase’s length, occupying more basement space. _‘Maybe an elevator?’_

“Good morn,” Aredhel cut into his thoughts. “Are we interrupting?”

Wesson’s expression broadened into a welcoming smile. “Not at all, you are just in time! Leif, do you mind if I bring in a television set?”

“Got one,” Leif pointed at the living room. One of the bookshelves had a space large enough for a fat-bodied device to squat. The device was older, three dials on the upper right side bearing only traces of the original chrome finish. A big remote sat on the lower side, dust covering the spaces between its buttons. “Was working fine.”

Fanchon colored. “I had not yet reached there in cleaning, L-Leif.”

“S’alright,” Leif waved away the apology. “Worked just fine during the Olympics. Little dust won’t hurt.”

He continued getting another set of glasses from the cupboard before growing conscious of multiple sets of eyes. Turning around, four glasses in hand, he came to an abrupt halt. “What?”

The liminals exchanged looks, but Wesson spoke up. “You haven’t watched television since the Olympics?”

“Yah?” The glasses landed on a countertop in a satisfying clunk. While not delicate, they were solid, designed for long-term service. “So?”

Wesson shook his head. “Never mind. Um, I have a bigger set, with cable if you want to see the ceremony from here? Then we can head over to Havre for the celebration.”

He hesitated. It felt wrong, but there was no basis for it. _‘Ain’t lettin’ emotion rule me now. Not then, not now.’_

“Sounds good,” he splayed his hands at the fresh milk and cookies. “Snack?”

It took very little time until a small group of men arrived, bringing the promised television set. They performed their operations with a smoothness not often seen outside professional competition, clearing a space without damaging the floor while making the entire operation look to be rehearsed.

By popular demand, Leif sat on the sofa between Aredhel and Fanchon. Roanette had elected to stand behind him, arms propped on the sofa’s back just behind his head, close enough so the skin brushed against his hair. Her lack of reaction when he leaned back in a stretch seemed to suggest it was an unconscious posture.

Had he eyes on the back of his head, the wide smile she bore would’ve given him thoughts in more worried directions.

Before him rose the sloped screen of a television set large enough to serve a family of six, were it in another position. From a distance, he would’ve mistaken its crystal-clear imagery for another window, albeit one set in the middle of a black frame. On its surface he could see a stage somewhere in Japan, the first nation to sign the Accords. Sober looking government officials stood on one side of the stage, while a mixture of representatives for the liminal population were gathered on the other.

“This is so exciting!” Fanchon clutched at his left hand, an arrangement of whose timing Leif was uncertain. “It’s really happening. It’s really happening!”

Something warm seized his other hand. Aredhel on his right flank, who somehow found it necessary to ignore the wide space to her own right in order to lean against his shoulder, refusing to look at him.

He opted to do nothing. There was no harm involved, although there was a definite lack of personal space. Claustrophobia hadn’t been a familial trait, but he was beginning to see the benefits.

“Why are they using so many pens?” Fanchon suddenly asked. “Wouldn’t they check before the … how do you say … ceremony?”

“Political capital,” Aredhel answered from his other side, eyes glued to the screen. “Afterwards, the pens are mounted on a plaque.”

Leif felt pressure from behind as Roanette leaned over his head. “Ah. Yes, my father has several of those. When the agreements were signed, we were given a few; he intends to keep one for his office, and give the rest to allies. It is a newer way of earning favor, compared.”

“Wait for it.” Wesson cautioned from the corner. Several male feline figures were arranged around him, an odd combination of fur and body armor. “We’re almost there.”

Leif wondered what the government agent meant, but dismissed it from mind as the final pen was applied. Cheers and applause broke out around the room while the same thing occurred onscreen. There were three points of impact, one on either side of his head and one on the top – which almost jarred him into leaping from the sofa.

_‘Just celebrating. That’s all,’_ he knew himself to be delusional, yet chose to continue in its comforting embrace. _‘… screw it.’_

He adjusted himself upwards, and drew the surprised duo into a hug. It wasn’t long or one of particular intimacy, but it still seemed to surprise both elf and neko. Then Fanchon clutched into his side giggling; a heartbeat later Aredhel returned the embrace, with less enthusiasm but no less sincerity.

There was a brief moment of contemplation, all the changes in the past three months flitting through Leif’s mind. He could recall meeting Wesson for the first time, witnessing the irksome lack of understanding. His memories transitioned to watching a good friend fall, losing his legs while in a stampede, then of a certain centauride charging into his life.

 _‘This might not be so bad,’_ he had to admit. But then a thread of concern began to worm its way through the warm feelings. _‘Wait. Where’s Ro’ …?’_

There was just enough time to recall her prior position before strong arms snaked down around him, pulling his weight upwards just enough to ensure he knew who was behind the embrace. He tensed, but the expected soft, consciousness-removing darkness never appeared. It was just a steady companionship, promising a continued presence in ways words could not say.

After a heartbeat, he relaxed into the embrace, shifting one hand to pat the tanned forearms crossing his chest. _‘Yeah. Could be something good.’_

“Is this a group hug? Without me?” An unexpected voice jolted him out of mild euphoria. Sophette stood next to the sofa, a look of mock outrage on her face. “It’s not fair you know. All of you get a hug!”

“Sophie, wai-“ Leif couldn’t get the words out fast enough. The blonde centauride moved too quickly, seizing Fanchon and Aredhel in two long arms, and pressing herself forwards into the huddle, lifting all three of them into the air.

There was a confused babble, but the now-familiar soft darkness became present once more. Leif relaxed, letting it happen. _‘Liminals. Don’t know their own strength. We’ll work on that.’_

Strangely, the thought didn’t bother him. Working with others on the ranch seemed like a good idea, one he’d have to review in depth later, once the softness shutting down his outer perceptions let up. If not, there was always later. That was one thing the ranch had in abundance, time. Before it was an almost melancholy duty; now … not so much. The best years lay ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: You didn’t think Leif’s story would be ending without a bit of fluffiness, did you? Hopefully none of you have diabetes – before or after that ending. There will be an epilogue coming up soon, but this story better stop while it’s ahead. I’ve learned a great deal writing this sequel, and hope you have enjoyed reading it. Special thanks to the encouragement and reviews from Traxus IV, Alchemical_BaconOO, and DeliciousJams.
> 
> Special shout out to breakaway-republic and silverbug28 over on fanfic.net; they’ve written some fun stories!
> 
> Keep reading, keep writing, and let the sky be your limit!


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